My Fallen Angel
by Spirit the Fire Dragon
Summary: Some people say that everything happens for a reason; that people are meant to meet you and leave footprints upon your heart. Sherlock disagrees. But he knows he found his angel for a reason. There is no other explanation. And for once it doesn't matter.
1. Book 1 Begins

My Fallen Angel

_Book 1_

'Sherlock'

Some people say that everything happens for a reason; that everyone who comes into your life was meant to, meant to meet you and leave footprints upon your heart. Other people believe it was chance that brought them together. For others it's a combination of both.

If you would ask Sherlock Holmes what he believed, he would not answer you. He would glare and then walk away, or if he was in a particularly bad mood he would tear down your world with a few well placed verbal blows.

But if you could read his mind, or maybe his invisible facial features and the almost nonexistent flicker in his quicksilver eyes, you would see that he thought that he met his angel for a specific reason. That reason was to save his miserable, unworthy life from the dark hold of drugs and danger, of impassionate hate and the lack of any sort of welcome love.

But he would never tell you, of course. He would only tell his angel, when he lay asleep on the couch or in his bed, not able to hear him, but able to see it in his eyes when the morning came.

His angel came to him for a reason. And that reason came with a story.

And this is that story.

* * *

This story could start at the moment Sherlock looked upon the body of his angel, in a dark moonlit night; possibly when Sherlock made Lestrade join him on a stakeout in a forest in the English countryside; maybe even years before, when Sherlock tried his first dose of cocaine and became an addict.

But we will start on a rainy, miserable morning in early May. Sherlock knew the day well. May 6th, 2011. He got the fateful text at 12:26 pm, but didn't act on it until when he woke up from a drug induced sleep at 2:21.

Why does he remember the times, you ask?

He never deleted those texts from Lestrade.

Why did he memorize them?

Because he lost his angel, and those texts were linked to him. A way to keep his angel close, even though he was gone.

But enough looking into the future; it is May 6th at 2:15 and Sherlock found and grasped consciousness. He took until 2:19 to remember where he was (the couch, 221b Baker Street), how he got there (after stumbling in from a late night chase), what drugs he had taken (cocaine and heroin), what day it was (that one took a little longer; he figured it out when he glanced at the bullet tore calendar; May 6th), and what time it was (2:20).

By this time, he hoisted himself up and searched around the mess of the flat for his discarded phone, and at 2:21, he read this text from Lestrade.

_**New case. Murder. Text me whenever you wake up. Drink some coffee; no drugs, Sherlock. –Lestrade**_

Sherlock let a smile tug at the corner of his lip. It felt almost wrong on his face for a moment before he wrapped his blue scarf around his neck, threw on his coat without bothering to change his clothes, and ran outside to catch a cab. He texted Lestrade once telling his cabbie the place (Lestrade had texted him a few minutes later with the address of the murder). His text was this:

_**On my way. No promises, Lestrade, never promises. Do you want it solved or not? –SH**_

He resigned himself to gaze out of the window as London crawled by, not yet aware that his life was about to change for much of the better.

Much, much better.

-Fallen Angel-

He met Lestrade at the scene and, without fault, met Sergeant Donovan outside of the shabby house. She, as usual, was filled with spite and hate when he stepped out of his cab.

"What drugs are you on today, Freak?" she threw at him, a wicked smile on her face.

"What men are you on today, Donovan?" He threw back, after catching her insult with one hand. The look of outrage on her face was enough for him to know he caught her unawares.

He swept past her and up the set of rickety stairs to meet Lestrade in a tight, claustrophobic inducing room. A body lay crumpled on the floor, at the foot of the bed, almost like he had fallen and curled in on himself as if to protect himself from blows.

Sherlock instantly got this from his distance from seven feet away:

Male. Early thirties. Cause of death most likely blunt trauma to the head, left side, repeatedly hit with an object the size of a candlestick. Dead for about eight hours. He also got a few other snippets, but he could not be sure until a closer examination.

As he approached, he pulled on his blue latex gloves and looked attentively at the corpse. He walked around it, looking at the wounds, neck, face, fingers, arm, clothes, shoes and fingernails. After he had examined said items, he smiled slightly and stood.

If you could have followed his train of thought threw those precious twenty seconds, you would be staring open mouthed at him, stunned at the rate his thoughts ran and how gorgeously intelligent they were. Your brain might possibly even explode.

So, to save your innocent minds, I shall omit that from this story. In truth, it is not vital to the narrative, not as much as the conclusion he reached.

Which was this: "Do you really not observe who this is?"

A long suffering sigh was Lestrade's first answer, then "If I did, Sherlock, then would I have called you in?"

Sherlock didn't look at him when he responded. He was still looking at the corpse. "You know how much it irks me when someone answers a question with a question, Lestrade." He waved away the annoyed look in the DI's face. "He is obviously a seasoned camper. Maybe in a group of three or four friends who go out on a regular basis to camp, most likely in the nearby countryside. Killed by one of the friends. If you remember, Lestrade, there was a suicide victim who killed himself about two weeks ago, and he was also a camper. Obviously connected, I knew he was murdered the moment I looked at him. Now we must find the friend."

He swept out of the room, but Lestrade caught his arm.

Now I must pause at this point to mention this: if Geoff Lestrade had not grabbed Sherlock's arm, he never would have met his angel, and his life would have ended about three months later, on a purposeful overdose on cocaine.

But he did, and Sherlock Holmes would not die because of an overdose, and he would live. He would live in happiness. Or as close as Sherlock Holmes can get to happiness.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with a raised eyebrow, then pulled his arm out of his grasp, but did not continue walking.

"Yes?"

"Where are you off to? How can you know where the friend is?"

Sherlock smiled, very slightly, and then a thought clicked into place. His smiled widened slightly.

"Lestrade, care for a camping trip tonight?"

-Fallen Angel-

The two men met at the outskirts of a camping ground at about nine o' three. Sherlock in his ever present sweeping black coat, with nothing of provisions but a small bag slung over his shoulder that hung at his waist. Lestrade had a backpack slung over his shoulder as he stepped out of a cab.

"Sherlock," he said, very much disgruntled, "You insist on a camping trip at _this exact place_, yet there are many other camping places around. It's a Friday night and there is almost no chance the murderer will be camping here after a recent murder!"

"Ah, that's where your wrong, Inspector," Sherlock said with a smirk. He was quite enjoying himself. "He would go regularly on the weekends, or at least on good weathered ones, and tonight is one such night. He would have to act normally, even though one of his friends had just died—he shouldn't even know, since it hasn't been released yet. There is a high probability he is here tonight, and we must track him down. Come along!"

With that, he turned around on his heel and walked briskly into the forest, Lestrade hurrying after him.

It was later in the night, maybe 9:49, that they reached an acceptable campsite and set up two sleeping bags (Lestrade forget a tent, Sherlock didn't bother) and Sherlock watched in amusement as Lestrade tried to light a fire. He gave up and with guns, flashlights, map, compass and bottled water they set out into the dark forest, searching for a murderer.

But what they found was definitely not a murderer.

It was around 10:42 when it happened. It was a whistling sound at first, low and like someone was blowing a high pitched whistle from some ways away. Sherlock paused, aware of the sound growing louder. Lestrade stopped as well.

"What's that?"

Sherlock silenced him with a glare and slowly turned on the spot, trying to isolate the sound. No, not from land. Above, in the sky, most likely. Before he could get another thought formed, there was an unholy sound the resonated through the air, hitting the two men like a bullet, shaking their very bones.

If you asked Lestrade to describe what he heard, he would describe it as a screech, like an animal in pain, but much, much worse. Like a combination of nails on chalkboard, cats screeching, demons tearing the Earth and sending up their howls to warm them. Then intensified by ten thousand.

If you asked Sherlock, he would say a howl of some sort of bird, a screeching from a hurt animal possibly. But inside, he knew it was not; it was worse than that. It sent panic through his heart for a moment, and it takes a lot to do that.

If you asked Lestrade how he felt at that moment, he would say he wanted to hide, run, scream and pull out his hair. The panic in his chest was constricting his breathing, and his instincts had screamed at him to run, just to hide. But he hadn't moved. He had stayed completely still, back stiff and eyes widened impossibly big.

If you asked Sherlock the same, he would tell you to get out of his way and let him do his work. But he really felt the same as Lestrade, to a somewhat lesser degree.

After a mere three seconds of this sound, another one joined it.

It was the horrible, gruesome sound wave of rusty metal being scratched against each other, unholy and making the hairs on their arms stand up high and panic rise in their throats and fog their minds.

To Lestrade and Sherlock both, it sounded like some sort of laughter. Cackling.

After three more seconds of both sounds combined, above their heads there was a streak of gold-red hurtling towards them, at an astonishing, impossible speed. It flashed above their heads, and then they heard branches snapping and a resounding boom echoed through the forest.

Sherlock was the first to recover, as usual. He blinked, shook his head slightly, and then ran forward. Lestrade followed after a belated time and wondered what could have made those unearthly sounds.

He never would know the answer to that question.

But Sherlock would.

Oh, would he know.

Sherlock estimated the distance where the crater would be, judging by the angle the object streaked above them. He was off by fifteen meters, but that was okay, because no one could have missed the crater that lay in front of him.

Sherlock stopped before the crater, stifling the illogical urge to run that had suddenly overtaken him. Whatever is in that crater is dead, he told himself. Or very, very interesting.

He was right in only one of those assumptions.

Sherlock approached the crater, and when Lestrade saw him standing at the lip of it, he did not come closer. He simply gasped, "What is it?"

He didn't get a response. Because Sherlock, for the first time in a long, long time, was speechless.

There was no fallen satellite, nor a meteorite or space junk. Not a part of a plane or other mechanical flying machinery.

No, it was none of those things.

For, in that crater, lying motionless beneath the small, settling layer of dust was a man.

**Now, this is something new I'm trying out. A different style of both writing and story-telling. Do you like it? Truthful answers here; criticism is my friend.**

**I'm splitting this one a bit differently. I'm not going to alternate between Sherlock and Man-In-Crater point of view. I'm going to a certain point in Sherlock's view, and then switching to Man-In-Crater's. Shh. **

**Man-In-Crater is sleeping. **

**Tell me what you think. **

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	2. Diluted Blue

Diluted Blue

_Book 1 _

'Sherlock'

Sherlock had only been shocked speechless three times in his life. The first two when he had been very young, one he can't remember so discounts as biased, the second had been when his father had slapped him after his first roll of deductions.

Sherlock had hit him back.

Let's say that didn't turn out well. Not well indeed.

The third time was what you just had witness to; an impossible explanation in impossible circumstances.

Sherlock Holmes was speechless for exactly six seconds. Then he snapped himself free from staring at the man (corpse, had to be!) and looked up to the sky, barely visible through the treetops. He could however see a few patches of cloudy, swirling darkness.

No aeroplanes, no helicopters, nothing! There was no parachute on the body, nor stuck in the treetops, so he fell from…nothing? Or a plane that crashed, and the wreckage was somewhere else?

He searched through his memory. Could that whistle have been the sound of an aeroplane, or a helicopter? Or perhaps a homemade flying contraption, that went wrong and threw its pilot to the ground?

That, however, did not explain the five foot deep crater that the man was lying motionless in. Sherlock knelt, touching the edges, and then curled his lip. The soil was warm; it was no old crater a prankster decided to try to fool him. This man made this crater, there was no doubt. It was no more than a few minutes old.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was reduced to sharp whispers. "Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He contemplated turning and walking away, but he did no such thing. He did the opposite, in fact, and slid down into the crater towards the man.

Here is a small note from your narrator: The man was not moving, true, but he was aware of everything around him. He was also unconscious.

When Sherlock got closer to the man, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt his eyes widen just slightly. This man was not dead. At a closer distance, Sherlock could see the small rising of his chest, as he lay on his side.

Lestrade, by this point, had appeared at the top of the crater. What he said was not surprising, but quite…passionate. Use your imagination here for what he said, for I will not write it here.

Sherlock glanced back up at him, with a small glare.

"Is he...alive?" the police officer managed in a mangled whisper.

Sherlock nodded once, and then reached out to the man, to feel his pulse. The moment his fingers touched his neck, the man awakened.

The world became a much different place the moment that man's eyes opened. It became a much more dangerous place, but at the same time, it became so much better.

His eyes snapped opened and he cried out, his voice sharp and clear and as piercing as a bullet. He jerked away, kicking out, scrambling, and he stared at Sherlock without blinking from his position on the other side of the crater. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut.

Sherlock found he couldn't look away from those eyes. Unlike him, he found himself losing his train of thought as he stared into those blue eyes. Watery, almost, he thought absently. Not clear and sharp, but a diluted kind of blue.

Lestrade had screamed, very un-police like when the man had suddenly awakened, and when he found the courage to scoot closer to the crater again, the man jerked his head to him, staring him down as well. He moved with startling, almost inhuman speed.

Sherlock had about seven seconds to look over the man, as he stared Lestrade down. He was a dirty blonde, tanned skin (that somehow shone in the moonlight, Sherlock wasn't sure how), broad shoulders and well developed shoulder muscles, and a puckering, fresh scar on his shoulder. He was otherwise unblemished, with his chest bare and tatters of his clothes hanging around his waist.

It was a white, silky fabric, singed at the edges and torn. He suspected it used to cross his chest and loop over one shoulder (most likely the left one, where his scar was) and was something like a toga.

By this point, the man jerked his head back at him and stared deep into his eyes, pinning him in place. The man opened his mouth thoughtfully, closed it, and then opened it again with determination.

Now, dear readers, are you able to think of what this man will say?

"Care…for a cup of tea?"

I hope not.

Lestrade squawked, his face showing every possible way of displaying shock, and stared at the man with his owlish eyes.

"A cup of tea?" he almost shrieked, and the man jerked his head to stare at him. "You're fantasizing about a cup of tea when you just fell from the sky?"

The man's innocent face screwed up, almost prettily. "What, not good?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "We at least know he's a Brit, Lestrade. Lestrade! Calm down, man!" He glared at the DI until he calmed slightly, then turned to the unnamed man.

"What's your name?"

This is a good point to mention that Sherlock was very disgruntled and surprised he could not deduce anymore than he had been in war, shot in the shoulder, and he would have temporary or permanent amnesia. This is what sparked a fire of an obsession to find out who this impossible man was.

The man frowned for a bit, seemed to chew on the words, and then looked Sherlock in the eye for a few moments before he said, "John Watson." A beat passed. "Doctor John Watson."

Lestrade finally seemed to remember he was a police officer. "Dr. Watson, can you remember anything?"

John hadn't let his body relax, and he jerked his head to Lestrade for a moment, blinked his pretty blue eyes, and then shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."

Lestrade said they should get him out of the crater, and Sherlock reached across to help John out. The moment Sherlock touched John, the older man screamed sharp and piercing. He jerked back, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

"Don't touch me!" He screeched.

Sherlock stared at him, noticing that his skin was red where he had touched him. John stood up, staggered, and then scrabbled up the side of the crater. He then proceeded to twist his head to look at his back, eyes wide, and then he shook his head.

"You should go to the hospital, Dr. Watson," Lestrade said.

"No," John snapped. "No hospitals. And you can call me John."

"Come to our campsite, then," Sherlock said.

No, that little proposal was not because he was a friendly man who wanted to help another. It was because there was a living, breathing puzzle standing before him, and he wanted to solve it.

John would remain a puzzle for a long time, until a fateful night in early July.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. John did indeed stay at their campsite, explained he didn't remember much more than his name and that he didn't think he had a home. When they went to the station in the morning, John was staring wide-eyed at the buildings as they passed in the car, looking up at the sky and the towering buildings.

He always seemed to take short, wheezing breaths. He stood with his shoulders back, but walked almost uncomfortably. Like his legs constantly pained him. There was a reason for that, and Sherlock wanted to know, but John kept it to himself.

Running his name through the computer, they got military records, both for enrolling and release from a wound in the shoulder, a birth certificate and several charges on his sister, Harriet Watson, for drunk driving.

John had no recollection of any of this. He seemed confused and a little disoriented.

Even more so when Sherlock said: "Come to my flat, John."

Lestrade intervened immediately. Before, I had mentioned he had inadvertently saved Sherlock's life. Here, with the following argument, he was killing him.

"Sherlock, no. He can't live with you."

John blinked his eyes owlishly. "What?"

"Lestrade, I don't remember mentioning anything about him living with me. I said for him to come to my flat. Good day, Inspector. Come along, John."

Like a faithful puppy, John followed on Sherlock's heels. Though, I hasten to say, he is not anything remotely like a puppy. He is his own independent being; Sherlock's whetting stone, but a very strong and loyal man. He's more of an unleashed guard dog, standing next to his loyal friend, not master, following but nudging him in the right direction at times and keeping him in line.

"Where are we going?" John asked, shuffling awkwardly behind him as Sherlock seemed to summon a cab with his icy quicksilver eyes and a flick of his hand.

Sherlock looked at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He opened the door to the cab, and said to the cabbie as much to John, "221b Baker Street."

John blinked, smiled, and then climbed in after the consulting detective.

One last point to mention here: Dr. John Watson knew Sherlock Holmes. He knew he was a consulting detective and he knew where he lived. He knew Sherlock did want him to live with him, and he knew that Sherlock was going to decide for him. John was going to let him.

John was much more than he appeared. Much, much more.

**Oi! Not much here, mostly explaining in this chapter. Not as interesting, I know, and certainly not as big of a cliffhanger as last time. **

**I am also aware that John seemed very stalker-like. And that is meant to be. It will be explained. Do not fear!**

**Yes, I know the campsite and station parts seemed rushed. Well, that was intentional. Sherlock doesn't bother to go into great detail about those parts, because it was dull to him and the interesting parts start happening once John goes to his flat. **

**I realized that this may not be as…story-telling like as the first chapter. I found out that that type of style is hard to right and duplicate. Excuse it if it seems…less epic and needy. **

**Still, I want your thoughts, ideas, criticism, and anything else that you can leave in a review. **

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	3. Silent Meanings

Silent Meanings

_Book 1_

'Sherlock'

To say the least, Sherlock was obsessively interested by the mysterious circumstances John had appeared. Not, per say, in John himself, but how it was possible for him to fall from nothing and make a five foot crater in solid earth.

But that would change. Not right away, but Sherlock would eventually care more for John than for his mystery.

But now, on May 7th, Sherlock invited John to his flat only so he could speak to him alone and possibly crack this impossible cipher.

John didn't speak in the cab. He just stared out of the window; his breathing slightly labored in the heated car and looked almost wistfully to the sky. Sherlock watched him inventively for periodic intervals, then looked out of his window and scrolled through his phone for one thing or another.

John eventually let out a long suffering sigh, then turned towards Sherlock and said, "You have questions. If you want to know something, then ask, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him with a slightly surprised flicker in his eyes. Not that John could see it, but he knew.

"That's something I usually say," he said, as if musing. "I tend not to ask pointless questions, John."

"Then don't make them pointless."

Sherlock's lip curled up for a moment in something close to a smile. "Later."

They reached Bakker Street and Sherlock paid the cabbie, and John watched as he strode into the house and hung up his coat on the railing. An old woman came bustling out and fretted over Sherlock until she noticed the older man.

"Oh!" she sounded delighted. "Are you one of those police officers, or a friend of Sherlock's?"

John smiled at her but Sherlock replied before he could. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. He'll be staying with me for a few days."

John looked up at him, his face confused and surprised. "I am?"

"Splendid!" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "Oh, Dr. Watson, Sherlock is a good boy, he really is—it's just those police officers who make him seem worse than he is, truly."

Sherlock, by this point, had climbed the stairs and shouted down to them. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson giggled and gently smacked John's back as he climbed the stairs. "Give him a chance, Dr. Watson."

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled at her, though his back was aching slightly. He climbed the stairs slowly and was not very happy to find the air was warm in the flat.

Sherlock was curled up on the couch, laptop on his knees and he was viscously typing. The wallpapers and the colors of the rooms made it feel warm, and there were papers and books strewn across the small table and the floor, boxes piled against the walls and scientific beakers and things covering the kitchen table.

Sherlock closed his laptop, looked up at John and stood, not taking his eyes off of him. He watched John's eyes, noticing his eyes didn't waver or flick away.

"John," he said, very slowly, "Who are you?"

An ordinary person would have said, "I'm [insert name here], I told you that!" but as we've already established, John is no ordinary person. He knew what Sherlock was asking and knew he wouldn't stop trying to figure it out.

John simply smiled. He had his hands clasped behind his back and didn't look away from Sherlock's searching eyes. "I'm exactly who you think I am, Sherlock."

Sherlock found he couldn't look away from John's watery blue eyes. "I'm not quite sure what to think of you, John."

The doctor smiled. "You know, sometimes I don't either."

-Fallen Angel-

To answer your questions, yes, John did move in with Sherlock. Not that day, but the next. John had no belongings, so he simply moved Sherlock's stuff out of the upper bedroom and he became Sherlock's flat mate.

Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic, to say the least. She wasn't sure if it was one of Sherlock's 'friends', who sold him those horrible drugs, but she liked John. It was surprising. It seemed no one, from the DI to Sherlock couldn't not like him.

John found out about the drugs the day he moved in. He found a vial of liquid cocaine under his mattress—not a very original hiding place, sure, but it was so obvious it wasn't—and poured it down the toilet.

He found Sherlock on the couch one day, holding a syringe in his hands, looking like he was contemplating sticking it in his arm. John didn't gasp, run, yell, rip it out of his hands, or call for help. He blinked, walked calmly to Sherlock and sat next to him.

In the silence, they had a conversation. It went something like this:

Sherlock twitched his fingers. _I'm an addict. _

John clasped his hands. _I know._

Sherlock blinked twice and bit his lip. _This could be disastrous. _

John let out a wheezy sort of breath. _Yes, that's probable. _

Sherlock closed his eyes. _They keep me sane._

John glanced at his face. _That's one way of looking at it, yes._

Sherlock's hands clenched around the syringe. _I don't want to be an addict anymore. _

John let his hand open, palm up. _Then don't be._

Sherlock glanced at him, then from the syringe to his open hand. He swallowed and put the syringe in his hand, then tightly clasped his hands in his lap. _I trust you._

John smiled at him, very slightly. Not pitying, but thankful almost. _I know. Are there any more?_

Sherlock nodded this time, the first ordinary answer in their conversation. _Yes. _

John nodded back, stood up and walked to the kitchen and slowly poured the drug down the drain. He turned to look at the detective. "You get the others."

Sherlock nodded and stood, and slowly went to collect his hoard of drugs. He came back with several vials, packets of white powder and two more syringes. He carefully handed them over and John got rid of all of them.

When John found Sherlock again, he was lying with his back to the world on the couch. John smiled when he saw that Sherlock was asleep.

-Fallen Angel-

Oh, and just for reference, the murderer of the two campers was found. He was in that forest, the night John fell from the sky. He hadn't the iron will Sherlock and Lestrade had, and went raving mad after he heard those hellish sounds. Lestrade's men found him on the fringe of that forest, ranting about demons and devils and he was put into the care of a hospital for the mentally ill. He died there three weeks later.

In the first month that John lived with Sherlock, he had no cases. But he never went for drugs, strangely, after John got rid of all of them. He didn't go searching for more, and found himself not craving the stimulation. He was focused on cracking the puzzle of John.

He observed him constantly. The way he walked (shuffled, almost, awkwardly and in pain. Not quite a limp, but like he had broken his legs and they hadn't healed properly), the way he breathed (harshly, wheezing, except in cold air), what he ate (he didn't like takeout at first, but seemed to get used to it. He didn't drink a lot, but when he did it was water), his habits (regular sleeper, went to bed at ten and woke at nine. Ate at regular intervals, didn't go out often, sat with his window open in his room and sat by it, breathing in cold morning air), everything. Sherlock could only link any kind of injuries from the fall with his awkward gait, but when he was asked, John said he had had a childhood accident that hurt his legs permanently. Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he believed him.

John, on that note, was constantly aware of his scrutiny and said nothing, nor did any of his habits differently. He was even aware of the times Sherlock stood at his bedside and watched him sleep.

He, at those times, was sleeping. He didn't wake and suddenly become aware of Sherlock. He was dead in sleep and knew he was being watched by his flat mate, but found he didn't mind.

In the middle of June, Sherlock got a case and dragged John along. Lestrade was not amused, but found that Sherlock was more thoughtful than usual and John seemed to only spur him on. Anderson was flabbergasted, and struck verbally at both Sherlock and John. Sherlock ignored him, John simply smiled and said, "And a good day to you, Mr. Anderson."

Sherlock was internally seething when he heard Anderson lash out at John, and found himself still angry when John said that. But he would pay Anderson back for that, in time.

Sergeant Donavon was angry. She told off Sherlock and told John to run before Sherlock could corrupt him. John, instead of getting angry, laughed and said, "Consider myself corrupted, then, Sergeant. Good day."

Sherlock rattled off his list of deductions, as usual, but none of the officers or him knew the victim's name. He was young, maybe twenty five, with dusty blonde hair, short and lean. He was killed by several stab wounds in his chest.

As the detective turned around, to look at John, he saw the good doctor's eyes flare a bright, electric blue as he looked at the corpse. Not a false, neon blue, but an electric cobalt blue. For only a moment, then they faded back to their diluted blue color and then John interrupted Lestrade's lecture with, "His name is Jeremy. Jeremy Earal."

All the noise stopped and everyone turned to John, openmouthed. Only Sherlock and Lestrade knew how he fell from the sky, but it was still astonishing to the others.

"How do you know that?" That was Lestrade.

"What made you remember?" That was Sherlock.

John blinked and looked up at them, noticing every pair of eyes was on him. A blush crept up his neck. "I just…know. It seemed right, you know? He looks like a Jeremy Earal."

Sherlock contemplated that. "He looks more like a David Jeffries, but I can go with that. Good! So, Lestrade, look for Jeremy Earal's friends and relatives. Most likely a restaurant owner, like I said."

"John, do you remember him? Do you know him?" Lestrade somewhat ignored Sherlock's orders as he asked.

John pursed his lips; face still a bit tinted by a pretty pink. "A bit, I guess. I know…remember…him. He works in the Green Dragon. Well, worked, I suppose." A beat passed, and then he frowned. "I…never mind."

Sherlock saw the internal struggle, and decided to bring this dull but informative little exercise to a stop. "You should be able to find him with all of that, Lestrade. Come along, John, I know a good Chinese place around the corner."

With that, our boys were off, and the trap was set. The gears were in motion. The end would come.

**Book 1 is coming to a close, I'd say. Not sure, though, but I believe I can make book 1 end in the next chapter, possibly. But even though book 1 would end, book 2 will start! Yay!**

**There are probably a few mistakes in here, but it's hard for me to catch my own mistakes, because I know what I wanted to write and so I see what I think I wrote. Tell me if there's anything I missed. Like I said before, the style I started with is very hard to continually write. I'm trying, but finding myself slipping to my normal style. **

**Oh, and the line before the first breaker, I couldn't put 'John' or even 'the good doctor', but I had to write 'the doctor'. Reference! =D Geronimo!**

**Also leave a review, if you like it or hate it, if you have suggestions or thoughts on what should happen or predictions on what could happen. New ideas spur the mind.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	4. Screaming Silence

Screaming Silence

_Book 1_

'Sherlock'

Other notable events happened in June, such as Sherlock occasionally catching John's eyes flare that gorgeous (gorgeous? Really, Sherlock? But no matter how he patronized himself, he couldn't think of a better word) electric blue and then fade to the normal blue of his watery eyes. He also once found him on the roof of their rooms, staring up at the night sky, and sat with him for most of the night. One other time, he caught sight of his bare back and saw it was as unblemished as the rest of his body—besides that war scar on his shoulder—which was unlikely for a veteran of war.

But other than rare occurrences such as that, June passed flawlessly and with only one more case, but that was fine, because Sherlock had John to keep his mind working.

He never thought of using cocaine or heroin, and when he was struck by the thought he hadn't craved the drugs for over a month shocked him. No withdrawal symptoms, no cravings, no fresh puncture marks anywhere on his body, in case he was somehow getting the drug into his system while he slept (unlikely but knowing him it wouldn't be too surprising), anything. It was like his craving vanished overnight.

It was July when everything changed. A delicious case, with a professional stunt artist killing one of his rivals for a part in a movie, and Sherlock relished both the challenge of the mind and of the body. He was no stunt artist, but he was confident that he could keep up with him.

John, by this point, had turned up the air conditioning so it was near freezing in their flat, not able to bear the thick, warm air. He also had been working his legs more and was able to keep up somewhat with Sherlock's fleet footed steps.

When Sherlock tracked the suspect down to a tall, underused building in central London, he dragged John along. Not that John didn't want to go, but he had literally grabbed him from his seat on the armchair and didn't let go of the back of his new jumper till they were on the street. He hadn't even had time to grab his jacket.

With the cab crawling towards the location, Sherlock was unusually quiet for being on a case. By this point, he was usually ranting on about one aspect of the case or another, or something different entirely, such as concert violinists in town or the different types of ashes made by certain cigarettes and cigars.

But he was silent, and that should have been warning enough he was anticipating something very bad or very boring.

Personally, I don't know which would be worse, to Sherlock Holmes. He is a complex being and his mind is even more cryptic.

Saying this, I continue on here: when John and Sherlock arrived two blocks from the location and walked to the building. Ordinary, in every way, but distinguished by the knowledge that a murderer lay behind its solid brick walls.

Sherlock entered through a bashed in window in the back, opening the door for John and pulling out a torch from the swirling blackness of his coat. The building was eerie, foreboding, with limp boxes on tables and strewn randomly around the ground, papers tossed to the ground and adding to the entire picture of disorganized, hurried abandonment and anger.

With the beam of the torch gliding on the walls and over empty tables and bashed counters, the silence only seemed to intensify with the limited vision the light offered them. The papers didn't stir, the walls still creaked, but the silence only grew with their ragged breathing and soft footsteps. Somehow, as the eerie sounds grew louder around them, making their hearts beat faster and their palms grow sweaty, the silence that pounded on their ears only grew louder.

John almost felt compelled to tell Sherlock the silence was screaming at them, but the silence stole the words from his lips and whispered to him not to break it.

Sherlock led the way, footsteps measured and quiet, his breathing just the same, and he slipped through slack jaw doors and stepped over fallen chairs and debris, and the torch light seemed dim and flickering, not reassuring as it should have been.

He heard John behind him, shuffling in the unique way that was his and breathing his wheezy breaths, and he was disconcerted by the sudden irrational urge to stop, reach back and take his hand. He did not, however, and slowly kept walking through the dying building.

They reached what should have been the lobby, and was only met with more loose papers and forgotten, useless artifacts that collected year's worth of dust. The said dust that was also recently stirred, lingering and dancing in the air, coating their lungs and slowly sinking to the ground.

Sherlock paused to study the ground, then leaned to John and put his lips near the older man's ear. "He's been here," he breathed, no louder than his exhaling breaths before. "See the footprints in the dust? He's gone upstairs—take your gun out, safety off, I think."

John nodded and took the gun Sherlock had handed him before he entered the place, staring at it for a moment before finding the safety and switching it off. He nodded once again to Sherlock, and they started up the old stairs.

Sherlock knew this place used to be a family owned business, owned by an American family that was forced to flee for unknown reasons and never inhabited since. He briefly considered the suspect to be of that family, but then dismissed the theory; he most likely chose this place because he knows there wouldn't be anyone in the building.

They slipped up the stairs, floor after floor, Sherlock following the nearly invisible footsteps in the layer of dust at their feet, John following the dim shape of Sherlock and the dimming light of the torch slipping from walls to floor and back to walls.

Each step up, each floor they approached, met and left behind made the hearts in their chests beat faster, made fear slowly creep under their skins and sit in their hearts. Each quiet breath stole the next one in their lungs; each flick of the eyes hid a demon from their view and formed another one in the corner of their eyes.

Up and up they climbed, the darkness squeezing in the corners of their eyes, suffocating, the silence of the weary building crushing their ears and the warm, dry air only made their trigger fingers grow slick with sweat.

John wiped his hand on his jeans, trying to calm.

Sherlock slowed before the next floor, checking for the tell tale signs of a man.

The torch flickered and died.

A murderer hid in the darkness, outrunning his guilt.

Thunder rolled in above the city's head.

Sherlock heard the murderer before the suspect was aware. He stopped, held his breath, tightened his hold on the gun. John did the same. Both heard the ragged breathing of a desperate man.

The detective stepped around a wall, standing valiantly between them, and aimed his gun at the man standing over a table and clutching his hair. The suspect, Derrick Frank, instantly turned, fell to the ground and ran.

A stunt artist he was, and he managed to sprint into a connecting room and force a window open. Sherlock fired, but missed as he climbed out of the window and scrambled upwards to the roof.

"He's heading for the roof, John!" Sherlock cried, bounding back to the stairs and ascending them three at a time. John followed at a more reasonable speed, wheezing breaths tearing his throat.

Sherlock, spiraling in an adrenaline high, thought nothing of the rusting lock holding the grate above a ladder to get to the roof. He shot the lock clean off and scrabbled up the rusting ladder, barely waiting to call John in the right direction. As if the good doctor could have missed the clear slice of a gunshot.

John had a hard time on the ladder. The cold, rainy night air hit his face and he breathed it in, forcing himself up onto the slick roof top.

What he saw was this:

Two figures outlined by the light of the stars and moon, grappling near the edge of the roof. The taller had a hand in the other's hair, the other on a wrist clutching his throat. The smaller of the two had the hand on the throat, other holding the handgun away from his general being.

John had only five seconds to stand from the trap door, tighten his hand on his gun, and start his awkward run towards the pair. But he only got a few steps closer and the smaller twisted violently to the side, his knees hitting the lip of the roof and making him reel backwards.

The grip on the pale throat did not lessen—it might have even tightened—as he teetered on the very edge of death, then fell victim to its tempting call. Both went over and vanished into the dark, suffocating blackness.

John screamed Sherlock's name, ran to the edge of the roof and watched his friend fall.

Sherlock did not yell as he went over. He only pulled away from the murderer's poisoned hands and fell with his arms spread and his coat slapping around his legs. He flipped, turned, rotated and twisted in the air and only glimpsed a third figure falling towards him.

He heard the sound of another object, or man, falling towards him and as he flipped up to face the fleeing building, he caught sight of a wooly jumper, outstretched hands and a cape of ivory.

Sherlock felt warm arms encircle him, heard comforting voice in his ear, saw nothing as his eyes closed against the painful air, and felt his legs entangle with the man falling with him. His hands filled with soft woolen jumper, and he clutched onto him like he was his only lifeline.

It was selfish of him to pull John down with him, but he wasn't about to let him go.

Only they didn't continue falling. The voice once again spoke in his ear and the stinging air stopped slapping his face for a blissful moment.

"Hold on!"

Then they were up vertical, a powerful force fighting against gravity launching both of them away from the Earth and up towards the swirling sky.

**Mwhaha! And so ends Book 1! **

**I'm cruel. Yes I am. And I will be even crueler the next book, which shall start with the story of how John **_**really**_** fell. Then his thoughts through the events Sherlock vaguely sketched for us, in his own 'romanticized' words. I know I would be annoyed if anyone did this to me, but believe me, it would be more confusing I think if John just explained everything and answered Sherlock's questions.**

**After all, us mortals do enjoy 'romanticized' versions of events more than scientific versions, for a story like this at least. John has to speak to us in his own words, and that means from the beginning. Do try to fantasize how Sherlock will react to John's mysterious powers, yes? **

**There are probably mistakes in here. Excuse them if there are, but point them out so I can feel embarrassed. *sweet smile***

**Tell me what you think! Please! Now I'm reduced to begging. Thanks. But please review! I don't know if I'm just rambling or what!**

**I do tend to ramble a lot though…**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_

_**(I wrote Sherlock there first. Almost didn't catch it. Somehow, I find that acceptable.)**_


	5. Angels and Howlers Book 2

Angels and Howlers

_Book 2_

'John'

Now, Sherlock had a very limited view of John's life and habits. I, however, saw John as he lived his life high in the sky, I watched Sherlock kill himself slowly with those drugs. I watched as the world began and I watched when it ended.

I watched as the Angel fell.

It was a normal day, in all respects, when John went on a flight. He stood on his balcony, looking down over the sun kissed sky and the gorgeous clouds, spread his ivory wings out and let himself fall. The wind did not catch his wings until he fell passed the Palace, and then he tightened his shoulder muscles and glided on a fast air current under the Palace.

He didn't flap his wings until the air current evened out, and he left the Palace behind. The world was open at his feet, laid out beneath him, and the sun warmed his back and wings. The air was cold on his face and his breathing was smooth and easy, not hindered by the cold or thinness of it.

There was an unexplainable joy when one was flying; just the feeling of the air catching and pulling at your wings, feeling the feather shift with the air, knowing your completely free. To feel the sun warm on your back, feeling so light and strong, your heart and your breath and the warm hiss of the wind the only sounds in your ears.

John was an avid lover of flying. He loved everything about it and more. He adored to fly for hours and hours, alone but always accompanied by the wind and the clouds.

He decided when the sun started to sink and set the sky aflame to fly lower, towards the orange and pink clouds beneath him. So he loosened his muscles and stopped clinging to the current he was laying in, and felt himself slowly drop. He flapped, stayed level, and then continued down.

Now, on the Earth below John's wings, Sherlock Holmes and Geoff Lestrade where setting up their camp.

John flew lower; glimpsing a green covered Earth between the clouds and felt his breath catch. He was much closer than he anticipated, but felt safe.

The Howlers couldn't get him here.

*A note of advice. John would explain himself, but he and every Angel knew what a Howler was. It was etched in their very beings. Howlers are malevolent, spiteful creatures that live deep beneath the Earth crust, and hover high above the ground, but not quite in the Angel's territory. They feed on smog and gases and, legend says, evil and greed.

To an Angel, they are the Howlers. To a human, they are demons. The place they live below the ground? Hell. To an Angel?

Probably Hell too.*

But that was where John was wrong. The Howlers wanted an Angel, wanted to feast on Angel flesh, so they reached up and waited for him to fall.

John didn't know what happened. He felt his wings buckle, felt himself turn heavy, tilt and fall. He had no chance to spread his wings again and save himself. He fell and broke through the clouds and into the Howlers.

That fallen Angel would agonize over that for many nights and weeks, replaying it in his mind over and over, trying to remember a gust of strong wing or the lack thereof that would cause his wings to buckle. Maybe an updraft or a sinkhole in the air, or something that would distract him and make his wings loosen and buckle under the strain of the wind.

But he was living in the moment, and that moment he was falling and tumbling through the air and then he felt himself enter the Howler's domain.

At this point, Sherlock and Geoff were walking through the forest.

You know what happens next: the sudden, heart wrenching screech and the cackling, then bad-a-bumba!, and John was found in his crater.

But those sounds were this.

John felt the tainted, poison flesh of the Howlers touch and grasp his flesh and burn him, and then a Howlers toxic claw buried itself in his shoulder. It _burned,_ it sent fire through his veins and hurt like no human could ever imagine.

John screamed. An Angel screaming can make any man, no matter how tough, start bawling, weep with such sadness, and can shatter glass and strike any creature dead with sorrow. It shakes the bones and can make any person cry, sob, anything. An Angel screaming hearing the most pure being, untainted with anger or fear, scream with something it's never supposed to know.

He didn't know where he was, which way was up or down as he fell through the Howlers lair, into the human world, and he felt the healing process start, but the substance that could heal his wound flew off, adding to the golden shroud of dust flying around him, tainted red by the blood of his wound.

He retreated within himself before he hit the trees. He didn't feel when he hit the trees, didn't feel when he hit the earth and broke his legs. He was acutely aware of his surroundings, but could not move. The healing started and the wound on his shoulder healing slowly and his legs as well. But his legs were bent awkwardly, and it healed wrong, but he could do nothing.

John's mind expanded out, engulfed his being and twenty feet out, monitoring, looking for anyone or thing that would harm him. There were tales of the Angels of the beasts that ran on the surface, wingless and filthy, murderous and greedy.

He certainly didn't want to be found by a human. Maybe, hopefully, he wouldn't be found at all.

But he had screamed, and it brought Sherlock and Geoff running.

He was aware of a being with a decently protected mind approach, look upon him. Another being came closer and his mind was not protected at all. John prodded his mind, but found nothing but swirling fear and shock. No coherent thought.

They spoke, and the first being, which was dangerously close to him, touched him. _Touched him._

In human culture, angels are people who died who play harps and sit in white togas and dresses on clouds, heads topped with halos and occasionally wings. But in truth, Angels were a spinoff of humans, a different species. Evolved from birds, they lost their bodily feathers but retained their wings while evolving bodies that mimicked humans'. They evolved to breathe thin, cold air and eat rarely. Their legs were weak and their shoulders were broad and strong.

But they are the most pure beings of this Earth and beyond. They are meant to never be tainted by poisonous thoughts of greed, hatred, anger, fear or any vile impulses. Pure, strong, whole.

Humans, by comparison, are vile, cruel, dangerous beasts who defile themselves with horrid, loathsome actions and thoughts. Filthy creatures in comparison to Angels. Saints compared to Howlers.

But when a human of such filth touches an Angel, the human becomes clean while the Angel becomes tainted.

It's what woke John from his self induced coma, when Sherlock touched his neck.

His skin burned. The flesh of a human was like a hot brand on his fragile skin, and he woke and cried out, scrambling away.

For a moment, he was confused. The being across from him looked like an Angel. Sharp features, dark hair, pale porcelain skin, icy grey eyes. But he felt the burn on his neck, saw the lack of wings, knew he was no Angel.

He had fallen. He was a Fallen Angel.

His mouth opened to speak, but then realized his Angel language might melt these creature's brains. If they got violent, it might not be a bad idea. He stared into the not-Angel's eyes, prodded his mind with his and flew through his memories.

Sherlock Holmes, thirty four Earth years old, male, one elder sibling, consulting detective (whatever that was), lived at 221b Baker Street, London, UK, with an elder female, Mrs. Hudson. Sometimes worked for Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade, addict of some substances, spoke English. He flew through his memories, vocabulary, and knowledge. It was immense, the amount of knowledge this not-Angel stored, and it helped him immensely.

The other being spoke and he jerked his head to him, pulling his mind from Sherlock Holmes' and into his. More information. This was Geoff Lestrade, DI, married but widowed, forty nine Earth years. Such and such. He flew through his vocabulary, memorized the words, the names, ideas, plans, laws, habits, accents, information, everything.

He looked back to the not-Angel, searched through his memories again, staring into his grey eyes, holding him still. His mind was immense, clever, sharp. He was surprised at first that he had a protected mind, but when he saw the many shining facets of his quick witted mind, his confusion dissipated. He had the looks and mind of an Angel, just not the wings and purity.

He had access to his current thoughts, but they were fuzzy, more properly guarded than the rest of his mind. It took him several seconds to get the gist of his thoughts.

This not-Angel thought he was…_human? _A veteran of…_war?_ Shot in the shoulder….well, whatever this not-Angel thought, he should go with it.

He opened his mouth, found that no words came, and closed it. He frowned, opened his mouth and scoured through the correct phrase to use when meeting someone. The words were rough, scratchy on his tongue, grunts and strange tongue rolls. So, he opened his mouth and said:

"Care…for a cup of tea?"

It was obviously not the right thing to say. The other human, Geoff Lestrade, lost his mind while the not-Angel calmed him and he found himself confused.

The not-Angel asked him what his name was.

He searched through the not-Angel's mind again, finding something called a hospital and doctors. Well, he thought he was in war, and he seemingly hated doctors, so he said the first name that came to mind.

"John Watson." Did 'Doctor' come before or after the name? He took a guess. "Doctor John Watson."

That seemed right. He was questioned for a moment, and then they decided on a plan of action. The not-Angel tried to touch him, but he screeched at him not to touch him. His flesh still crawled from being befouled by Howlers and the touch of a human.

He stood, found his hips and knees ached, and found a startling weight lifted from his shoulders. Quite literally, I'm afraid to say.

For there were no wings on John's back. They had disintegrated when he had been stabbed by the Howler, made that shroud of golden around him as he fell. He was a wingless, fallen Angel.

He was terrified, to say the least. He had no choice but to go with the humans and hope they could integrate him into their society without trouble. Until he found a way back to the Angels.

-Fallen Angel-

The air was thick. It was warm and thick and it clogged his chest and made it impossibly hard to breath. He was wheezing, sort of, and it was hard to walk with his awkwardly healed legs. He caught the not-Angel staring at him when he walked and when he slept (even when he slept, his mind was active and monitoring his surroundings) but that was okay, because he showed no indication of figuring out he had had wings. Or was any different than any other human.

They brought him through their city, piled high with hot steel and concrete, towering above the ground and blazing bright. Not a calm, serene bright that the sun made on the clouds, but a painful glare off of unnatural materials.

He stared, he wondered, he hoped, he stayed silent.

At the…what do humans call it?...station, of course, John was sent into a panic. According to Geoff's thoughts, they were going to search his names and records. He obviously did not have any, since, you know, he's an immortal Angel.

Oh, did he mention he's immortal? If not, John can live forever. Well, not at this rate, falling from his home and breaking his limbs and losing his wings—and falling straight into the least responsible person on the Earth's hands—but if he didn't get shot or break his neck or catch some human disease, he would live forever. He was young though. Only two hundred. Young according to the Angel's standards. Compared to human years, he is about Sherlock's age.

How convenient.

Anyways, he once again had to use his mind to bluff his way through these strange rituals. He hacked into the computer mentally, scoured through hundreds of thousands of millions of files. He found a Doctor John Watson very quickly.

Former veteran of war, shot in the right shoulder, PTSD sufferer, no kids, a drunk of a sister, no parents, living homeless, kicked out of his flat.

_Good job, John,_ he thought to himself. _Pick the homeless veteran and not some typical person. _Well, at least he was a veteran and shot in the shoulder with no kids. He would have to live with the drunken sister.

He altered a few words here, a few there, erased right shoulder for left, swapped out a lanky man's photo for one of his own (don't ask how, he just can) altered a few numbers for his birthday and social security.

They believed it. He breathed out a mental sigh of relief until the not-Angel got the thought for him to live with him.

Oh no, oh bloody no.

But he had no choice. He created this honest, facially loud mouthed façade, and had to stick with him. Not too intelligent, not to strong, boring and typical. Hopefully, he thought grimly, it will bore the not-Angel out of his mind and let him go.

Then he could find his way home.

**Woah! That was a lot of work! John is a strange minded person…er…Angel, and he's certainly hard to right. A bit pompous, I must say, though I didn't really mean for that to happen. **

**Sorry for those who are either banging their heads against a wall or rolling around on the floor because I didn't continue with Sherlock's…predicament. I can't pay for all of your medical bills. It will come in time! John's a very fast paced man…er…Angel, and he'll get to it. Steadily. **

**Thoughts? Concerns? Criticism? Anything? Please tell me! Pretty please!**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_

_**John**_

_**Sherlock**_


	6. Broken Wing

Broken Wing

_Book 2_

'John'

Let's just say that John was not thrilled when he heard Sherlock think that he wanted him to live in his flat. He was less than thrilled, actually.

He was horrified.

After all, he had no idea when, or if, his wings would reestablish themselves. It would be disastrous if he was making tea (it took him almost twenty minds to figure out how to make decent tea) and poof! his wings magically decided to tear his fuzzy and not-so-uncomfortable jumpers.

John was surprised to find out that humans wore clothes…constantly. At night, inside, outside, everywhere and every time! You must understand that Angels are not as strict as humans, and their culture is to wear only a flying robe to protect the skin. Otherwise, Angels were a…_revealing_ race.

He was also curious of the rituals and cultures of the human race. It was fascinating what he learned from the countless minds that roamed by his window. So many occupations, classes of financial wealth, words, languages, cultures, ideas, hopes, plans, relationships, governments, ethical rules, material items, plant life, and so many others.

He relished learning about the human's ways of life. Typical routines, standard days, careers, ages, mingling. It was all overpowering, but John adored the times he immersed himself in other's minds. He did notice, however, that no human—besides a very select few—had any protection over their minds. They didn't know when someone was scouring through their very thoughts.

One of those select few was Sherlock Holmes. John learned that the not-Angel was very different than the other humans. He was not what the majority considered typical, normal, polite, average, things of the sort. But he was one of two humans he had encountered that could protect his mind, no matter how weakly.

The other had a decent protection, but it was nothing compared to the strength and stealth of an Angel's mind. The other's name was, ironically enough, Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe minds do run in the family.

Anyways, John was a bit stuck. He had no choice but to move in with the detective, because he knew that the not-Angel was desperately obsessed with him and his seemingly ordinary countenance. That included not really wanting to argue or the lack of the ability to do so.

The first night he laid in that uncomfortable bed with the scratchy covers, he felt the Howler's claw dig into his shoulder once more, like a white hot iron shoving itself into the heart of the scar. He stifled a yell, clamped his jaw shut, and clutched at his shoulder.

He gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, and rode through the pain. He felt the poison crawl through his veins, burning his pure flesh. It lasted deep into the night, and when he finally could breathe smoothly again and see the ceiling without the veil of tears clouding his vision, he staggered up and into the bathroom.

Only to see his shoulder inflamed, almost visibly throbbing, and angry red and black streaks branching off from the blackened core of the scar. He hissed, seeing the red marks of where his fingers dug into his flesh, and gently prodded the blackest part, a lance of pain shot through his shoulder and he swallowed a cry. He took a breath in and put his hand over the poisoned flesh, and used his magic to slow the poison in his flesh.

No longer was he pure. He had Howler poison in his veins, under his flesh. If he couldn't get back to the Palace, to his home, he would become corrupted, impure, and die.

Dying was not an option right now.

-Fallen Angel-

Now, you obviously know what happens in the months of May, June and early July. Very few moments that stick out to Sherlock, but John was constantly thinking, planning, wondering, and hoping. He sat by his window periodically, for several reasons. One was to learn from the passerby's minds, another to breathe in cold night air, the third to stare at the sky and wish the Angels would come for him.

Through those months, he had those stabs of pain in his poisoned shoulder almost every night, and occasionally climbed up to the roof and sat there to first light. One time Sherlock found him and sat with him.

He found himself not thinking of him as the not-Angel, but as Sherlock. He also found himself a little hesitant to reach into the genius's mind to read his intentions. After all, his mind was his own.

When he went on that case, the first time he brought John along, he found himself flabbergasted by the anger and resentment in that corpse's dying consciousness.

It was when he reanimated his consciousness, Jeremy Earal's, that is, just for a moment to find his name, occupation and killer, that Sherlock saw his eyes flare that electric blue. He was aware of it, knew Sherlock saw, and hoped he wouldn't ask. It only happened when he summoned his powers, and used considerable amounts of magic.

John was getting used to Sherlock. He liked him. He protected him from ruthless, very rude police officers and from the 'boring mass population' and kept him close. It was like he knew John was different and protected him viscously, with tooth and claw and tongue.

Those months were not fun for John, but they were not boring or dull. He and Sherlock had a bond, whether it was because of prolonged exposure to each other's minds, or if they were just attracted to one another naturally, it mattered not; John and Sherlock were inseparable.

And even more so when that case came, where Sherlock so conveniently happened to fall off a building. You know what happens, and it's not much different from John's point of view, besides what happened when Sherlock fell over.

He ran to the edge. He looked down and saw him falling. He didn't think, he felt pure power rage through him and he jumped after him.

John knew how to streamline his body, and he was naturally lighter than any human. He fell with shocking speed, and grasped onto Sherlock. He didn't think about what was happening, he just clung to Sherlock's body and told him to hold on, and spread his magnificent, ivory wings. He threw his legs forward, twisted in air, tried to pull in his wings as not to clip them on the building in front of them.

John's heels hit the building and he pushed off of it, ignoring the burning in his muscles. He wrapped his wings protectively around Sherlock as he dove up into the air, and then threw them open.

Sherlock clung desperately to him, his face buried into his shoulder and legs hooked around John's, arms curled around John's neck and clinging to the torn jumper. John wrapped his strong arms around his shoulders as he leveled off, loving the feeling of the cold air whipping his longer hair and hitting his face, smoothing over his wings.

Almost three seconds after leveling off, he spotted Baker Street and said in Sherlock's ear, "Sherlock, hold on. It's going to seem like your falling, but just don't let go—I've got you."

With that, he tilted his wings down and sliced through the air, and fell in a shallow curve toward the roof of their flat. Sherlock almost cried out, but only held on tighter as he felt the weight leave his limbs and the air rub the nape of his neck raw.

John had no time to slow down, had no time to make a safe, soft landing. He loudly told Sherlock, "Legs—around my waist! I can't land without my legs!" Sherlock did as he was told, and nearly fell because of it, but stayed put tight against John.

John threw his legs forward, put of by the extra weight of Sherlock on his upper half, but his feet hit the roof. He was still going much too fast, and was forced to stumble forward, wings spread and flailing. He tripped, dropped Sherlock (who tumbled on the roof, like a child rolling down a hill) and went crashing to the flat roof.

Sherlock was momentarily disoriented. His head was aching, left arm throbbing with pain, but he soon remembered how he got to the roof of his flat. "John!" He scrambled up and ran to his non-human friend.

John was flush against the lip of the building, his back to it, one wing laid over his prone body, the other crushed awkwardly against the hard cement and under his body. He was motionless as Sherlock approached.

Like before, dear readers, in the crater when he fell, he was aware of all the minds around him. He just needed that spark to wake him from the trauma self induced coma.

Sherlock's touch was his spark.

Sherlock only had to put his hand on the side of his face. John's eyes snapped open and he gasped in his breath. He hissed, sat up and lifted his mangled wing. He clenched his teeth and rocked forward onto his knees.

"Sherlock," he grunted, eyes squeezed shut. "My wing…is broken. You…need to…snap it back into…place before it heals." He noticed Sherlock's expression and gasped, "Please, Sherlock! If it doesn't heal right, I won't be able fly!"

That made Sherlock blink and hesitantly reach forward, and hissing once he saw the mangled joint. The bone connecting the bone from his back to outer wing snapped clean off, sticking through the fragile flesh. The ivory feathers around the wound were bloody and ruffled, with the other parts of the wing torn free of feathers and rubbed raw.

"I…just…snap it in place? I would have to pull it apart then push it under the skin—"

"Yes, okay! Just—do it before it heals!"

Sherlock saw the golden dust starting to build up on the wounds, and it started to glow. Sherlock gulped and gently placed his hands over the wound, wincing when John tensed and hissed. The dust soothed his burning hands, but he took a shaky breath, then pulled the bone sticking from his flesh away from the joint and forced it into the wound near the joint.

John cried out, and then relaxed as his wing was set correctly. "Thank you," he mumbled, then the dust glowed bright on various places on him, and fell away, looking nothing more special than dirt. If Sherlock had been more of himself—and not confronted with a winged man—he would have collected samples, but right now he had reason to be forgetful.

He turned his attention to the wings he had absently set. Ivory colored, gorgeous, one slightly raised and spread as it healed and the other folded against his back.

"John?" Sherlock asked, and John opened his diluted eyes to look at him. "You are aware that you have wings, and its entirely impossible for humans to have wings, correct?"

John seemed to hold back a grin, but it broke through to a tiny smirk. "Yes, I am aware, Sherlock."

"Then…how?"

John shook his head. "Not here," he wheezed. "I can barely breathe." A beat passed, and John didn't want to ask, but he forced himself to. "Can you help me? I…my ankles are still healing from probably shattering them on that building."

If you haven't already inferred, Angels have a much more advanced natural healing ability. Magic, some would say, but those who knew better knew it was just an ability to survive various, devastating attacks from the Howlers.

Sherlock did help him down, by gently pulling his arm until he was standing straight. John slowly, tenderly, put his arm around Sherlock's much higher shoulders and hobbled down the trap door to the attic that eventually led to their cold, inviting flat.

Before I end this narrative, let me ask a question. If you were in Sherlock's place, would you have questions?

Yes?

_A lot_ of them?

Obviously?

Well, Sherlock had a little more than 'a lot' of questions. He had hundreds, piling up in his brain as he helped this impossible man into their flat, not able to stop glancing at the gleaming ivory wings that had seemed to sprout from his friend's back.

Yes, Sherlock did consider John his friend.

But now, he considered him _his. _

_(His fallen angel…)_

**Yes. Okay. Not my best, hopefully the less good it can get. It was rushed, I know, and a bit choppy. I was halfway through the flying scene when I realized I had not really made any kind of suspense, by making you wait one chapter to figure out what happened to Sherlock.**

**But you know? I'm a reader myself, and I hate it when authors do that. I guess my subconscious wanted to spare my fellow readers.**

_**Please tell me what you think! How I did! What I should do! Pretty please! I can even put microwaved eyeballs or severed fingers on top!**_

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit **_


	7. Coincidental Cold

**Warning: There is a kiss between John and Sherlock in this. If you don't like, skip, um, the scene with the mirror. **

Coincidental Cold

_Book 2_

'John'

Many people know and see Sherlock Holmes as a machine, a freak, a genius, maybe an emotionless monster, but always calculating and thinking, never stopping and beyond befuddlement.

Which is very close to accurate pre-John, but the moment Sherlock set his eyes on the man, he was constantly shocked and surprised and, maybe not so surprisingly, befuddled.

John, to him, was a grounded anchor on this world, when he got carried away with drugs and cases and boredom. He held his ankle in a firm but comforting grip, kept him sane, with a warm smile and simple words.

Now, as he laid on the floor of their flat, ivory wings spread completely and spreading through their living room and well into the kitchen, Sherlock knew he had good reason to be shocked stupid and stare. But, even though, his mind was whirling and trying to grasp a very simple, impossible flat: His one, true friend was winged.

The said winged man asked if he could crank up the air conditioning to nearly freezing. Sherlock did so and got a blanket for himself, wrapping it around his shoulders as he watched John gently peel off his torn and ruined jumper and shirt underneath. His bare back was revealed.

The wings were attached seamlessly into his back, muscle flowing flawlessly into the strong wing muscles, feathers smooth and glistening from the slight rain. Sherlock couldn't help but notice his wings had a blue hue to them, not a true blue, but a kind of shadowy blue on the edges of the feathers.

John then lay down on the floor, on his stomach, and sighed as his wings tenderly extended fully, touching the far wall and slipping under the kitchen table.

"How?" That, obviously, was Sherlock.

John smiled slightly, and turned his head to lie on his hands, and looked at Sherlock as the detective sat by his head. "You mean, how can I have wings?"

"Obviously."

"If you haven't already inferred, I'm not human. I may look so, but I'm really…" he trailed off, thinking. "There's no word to really describe the name of our species in any language I've encountered…the closet thing I can think is, ironically, 'Angel.' I'm technically an Angel."

Sherlock liked the coincidence.

"I don't know how to explain this…well, I have lived up in the sky for my entire life. Up in something called the Palace, in English. It's not all posh like you're thinking, it's not really a Palace, just the biggest building for Angels to live in."

"How did you fall, John?" Another thought occurred to him. "You're real name isn't John, is it?"

John smiled a bit ruefully. "No. You have to understand, when you asked me, I was totally ignorant in every kind of Earth tradition. I didn't know names, places, languages, things, traditions, anything. So I chose the first name that came to mind. 'John Watson.' It just…fit, I think." He thought about it. "I'm a bit sorry to say this, but I chose to be a doctor because you hated doctors."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "You became Doctor John Watson just to spite me?"

"Yeah, I did," he said. "I didn't want to interest you. I wanted to be able to get home without anyone remembering me—and if that means becoming a doctor just to get you off my tail, I would do it."

Sherlock thought back. "Can you tell me…everything? How you fell, how you got those records, how you're wings just…appeared?" He felt strange referring to the avian attachment on John's back, even though he could see it, nearly touch it.

So John told Sherlock everything. How he fell, how he got the scar on his shoulder (which turned into an hour long discussion about Howlers), why It was black and an angry red, how he could learn from other's minds, why he had trouble walking and breathing, why he thought his wings disintegrated and reappeared (under stress and filled with hormones—the wings probably weren't able to take it), why his eyes had flared that brilliant blue.

It lasted well into the night, and when John finished, he was strong enough to sit up and fold his wings softly, still slightly puffed out though. He sat with his legs folded under him, wings to the either side of him. He looked almost like, well, an angel.

Sherlock reached across the gap separating them and gently placed his hand on John's arm.

It was like a promise. A silent, binding promise. _I will keep you safe._

Or: _I understand._

Or maybe: _You're mine._

_You're my fallen Angel._

John's skin turned a rash red under his touch, but John's body, face and eyes showed no trace of any kind of pain. Sherlock pulled his hand back and hissed. "I'm—"

"No, don't apologize," John said quickly, retaking Sherlock's hand almost greedily. John wouldn't described it like that, but any witness (ahem, me) would have. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

"'Anymore'?" Sherlock questioned, looking at the red marks on John's tanned arm.

John looked down at their hands. "I hurt at first. To be touched, I mean. It burned. I guess it was because I was still very pure—innocent, I suppose. I couldn't stand the touch of any human. You have to understand, Sherlock, that compared the Angels, humans are dirty, greedy little bastards. Filthy beasts eating all of the Earth's food and multiplying so fast that it was downright scary. Angels, on the other hand, are calm, peaceful beings. Never angry, never mad, never greedy. We live for thousands of years—it's so rare that Angels are ever born. I've been alive almost two hundred years—no, don't give me that look, I'm still very young—and only been alive to see one birth. That was when I was seventy two, and it was the birth of…" he trailed off, thinking of the name translated into English. "Sera, I believe.

"Anyways, when a filthy creature like a human touches something so pure, it hurts the pure and cleanses the dirty. But the more I got touched, the more smog and thick air I breathed in, the more I used this strange language, I felt…less pure. Tainted. But not in a bad way—I almost feel freed from that ignorant state."

Sherlock watched John's face throughout this explanation, watched his eyes and the lines around his mouth, saw his eyes shift and the subtle change in his voice when he spoke of his old home.

John risked a glance up at Sherlock's face and saw him staring. He held his eyes but didn't venture into his mind. "Sherlock, now that you know all of this, you're in such a dangerous place. If Angels ever found me, found me with you and saw the immense knowledge of their culture in your mind, they will not hesitate to kill you. Yes, I know, 'pure and innocent and untainted', but there are some Angels that are sworn to protect our world at any cost. I won't be able to stop them. You cannot tell anyone—nor can you think about it, if you can."

A thought seemed to strike him just then. "Oh, bloody hell, I'll have to teach you to protect your mind. It's good, though, that you already have some protection, but it will be a challenge—against an Angel or a Howler, you'll be crushed in seconds, even if I teach you for years and years." The angel suddenly yawned, for several long seconds.

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile without him really thinking about it. "You better get some sleep, John."

John nodded and slowly stood up, his wings snatching his attention from anything else in the room. He started to walk towards his room, then paused and looked back at Sherlock.

"Have you figured out why you're not an addict anymore?"

Sherlock looked up; having just been thinking on those lines, thought, then shook his head.

"You told an Angel you didn't want to be an addict. So some of my…magic that drops off of me naturally focused on you and eliminated the chemical and physical needs in your mind and body. You stopped being an addict literally overnight. Without withdrawal, because you basically slept through it when you fell asleep on the couch." With that, John walked up the stairs, his cape of ivory trailing behind him.

-Fallen Angel-

That night, our special boys had ignored the most obvious problem that faced them: how were they going to keep John's wings a secret?

He couldn't just not go out; Lestrade, Mycroft, and basically everyone at the station would notice the lack of John on cases. He also couldn't just pull a jumper over them, because they extended well past his knees, splayed out about a foot on each side, and hung over a foot above his head.

John was contemplating the problem in a full size mirror Sherlock and conjured from his bedroom. He tried typing the bottom edges together, and even though it did hide them behind his legs, he would have to stuff them down his pant legs, and that would be very painful for sitting and nearly impossible to extend them in any reasonable time.

Sherlock came in and watched John try to fold his wings tighter, as if that would minimize the sixteen and a half foot wingspan. The detective slowly walked around the Angel, looking over the wings repeatedly. He then grabbed a blanket and threw it over John's head and the wings.

Sherlock snickered.

John frowned from under the blanket, and lifted it up to look at his friend's face. "Yes, Sherlock, that will certainly work."

"Well, no need to be cynical about it," Sherlock said as he walked into the kitchen, searching for his phone. Maybe it had dropped out of his pocket when he had been manhandled into flying. Or possibly it fell out mid-flight. He was amused by the thought of it hitting a car or someone, and the thoughts of how a cellular phone could have fallen from the sky.

John had turned back to the mirror, and then pulled off the blanket from his wings. "The first time they disappeared, I was falling. I had fallen through the Howler's already, and maybe it was the pain and fear that made them disintegrate. When they reappeared, I didn't even think about it—I just knew I had to jump, grab you and fly. I just…assumed they would be there."

Sherlock, by this point, had practically prowled back to where John was talking to his reflection. "I believe you have just stated the connection, dearest John."

John glanced up in the mirror, seeing Sherlock's face loom over his shoulder and wing. He turned, seeing that look intensify in his eye as he looked into it, not just at the reflection.

That look was none other than lust.

Sherlock prowled closer, putting his hands on John's good shoulder and pressing him gently against the tilting mirror. The glass was cold on his wings and the sliver of flesh that touched it. John's eyes had widened impossibly big.

Sherlock put his lips near the much older man's ear, nearly brushing them. "My dear Angel, you really surprise me at how blind you can be, when the answer is truly right in front of you."

With that, he pulled back, grabbed John's head in his and pressed his lips against the Angel's.

John gasped, his eyes wide, as the human _kissed_ him, and it was so strange and foreign and…right. He let his eyes slip closed and felt so many emotions course through him and nearly rip him in two. Sherlock made a small sound against his lips and pulled back, smiling triumphantly.

"Problem solved," he said and walked away.

John gasped for breath, clutching at his chest. Before he spoke, he turned and looked in the mirror. He was met with the sight of a wingless, breathless man.

John laughed, a little shakily. "Damn it, Sherlock, you bloody genius! But if you really wanted to kiss me that badly, you should have asked," he added teasingly.

Sherlock laughed, deep and true. "Yes, well. It was really simple, John, you just needed hormones and a pretty substantial shock to get those wings to disappear. Quickest way, of course, was a little out of the blue romantic approach."

"Only you would describe a kiss as a 'romantic approach'," John said, catching his breath in the cold air of their flat. Mrs. Hudson had given them an earful but Sherlock promised to pay her extra and kept the air conditioning blasting for John's well being.

Sherlock smiled, not letting John see as he opened his laptop. He turned and looked at John as he pulled on one of his more favorite jumpers, one that Mrs. Hudson had bought for him a week or two ago.

"Chinese tonight?" Sherlock questioned his angel's back as he made tea.

John pulled a face. "Angelo's instead?"

"Well enough."

He came back and handed Sherlock a cup and went over to the window, looking up at the sky.

Several minutes passed before Sherlock broke the comfortable silence.

"Do you miss them?"

John knew instantly who Sherlock was talking about, but took his time answering. "Not as much as I should."

"Are you going back?"

John looked at his cup. "Not on my own."

Sherlock's silence spoke more than any words could have. John sighed.

"I'm a big person in the Angel society, Sherlock, believe it or not. If there are any possibilities to get me back, the Angels will not hesitate to do so. I won't have a choice, really, and I will have to go." He paused and decided to explain from a different angle. "You know those holes in the clouds, when light seems to spill from them in pillars of gold? That's light from the Angel domain breaking through the Howlers. It's like a passage, that one could fly either down or up to get through the Howlers safely. The rescue would use one of those, if it is under the control of the Blue Palace, and find me, then wait for another and fly up through it."

Sherlock, by this point, had joined him at the window, looking at the gray sky. "Why haven't they already come for you?"

"They're not as common as you think, Sherlock, and they're very brief—you have to be at the exact place at the exact time."

Sherlock simply nodded.

"You won't leave, then?"

John smiled at his tall, not-Angel friend.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not leaving until I absolutely have to."

From my point of view, after watching thus far into these two unlikely friend's story, I find myself wishing that nothing would happen to them, that they would live quietly and peacefully, untouched by the Howlers and Angels alike.

But we all know that that could never happen. The pure wanted their fallen back, the demons wanted their long-awaited meal.

The fallen demon, however, was a different story.

**Done! Wow, that was a long one! It really got out of hand after the explanation—and sorry for those who don't like the relationship between John and Sherlock, but I positively love them together, even if it is a simple kiss to de-wing the Angel. ;) **

**I now have slipped completely back into my most comfortable style, but I hope that's okay—I'll probably write the story-telling way at the end. Hopefully. Probably.**

**I've got really nothing more to say besides R.E.V.I.E.W. PLEASE. **

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_

**(Oh, by the way, I don't own Sherlock or the characters. But the plot it mine.)**


	8. Stretched Sore

Stretched Sore

_Book 3_

'Sherlock'

We all, Angels and Humans alike, know that no matter what happens today, tomorrow will always come, and life will always move on. No matter how much we want life to stop, to grind to a halt to catch your breath, the world continues moving, buzzing, like an infernal beehive.

For our angelic couple, life did continue on, and it was peaceful. But there was always the threat of John's 'rescue' angels coming to take him away, and of the poison in his scar to spread, but they lived through every day, and only thought about the next when it came.

Soon after the incident, John approached Sherlock about protecting his mind. It went something like this:

"Sherlock, stop it."

"I wasn't doing anything."

"Yes, you're staring at my back and you're practically shouting in your mind."

"You can hear my thoughts?"

"Well, when you're only thinking about 'John John John John John John', it's kind of distracting. It can get pretty loud."

"You can _hear_ my _thoughts?"_

"Yes, Sherlock, don't get hysterical. I'm an Angel. Telepathic creature, you know."

"…"

"Right, fine. I'll teach you. Come over here."

So Sherlock sat next to John and the Angel looked into his eyes.

"Now, I've learned that humans don't have any telepathic abilities, or any protection around their minds. Hell, they don't even know when someone's ripping their very memories apart. But I have encountered only two minds with any degree of protection."

"Mycroft and I," Sherlock said before John could continue. John simply nodded, expecting that.

"So it makes it a bit easier, seeing you can already protect your thoughts a bit. I had to take a few seconds to read your thoughts the first time I met you—that's pretty substantial for no practice or awareness, actually. So I'm going to access your mind, but not read your thoughts or anything—just slip into your mind and see if you can feel it, okay?" At Sherlock's nod, John reached out and gently put his fingers on his temples, and stared into his eyes.

Like the first time he had stared into John's eyes, he felt his mind wandering, losing his train of thought.

"Tell me what you're feeling," John whispered, not blinking, unmoving.

"I…I don't know. I can…barely think. Like I forget what I was going to say…or even think, for that matter."

"That's me," John murmured. "I have primary access to your current thoughts. I can hear them; hear your mental voice through the connection. _'John…how is this happening…why can't I think…'_ Now, Sherlock, you have to expand your mind, feel the edges and the recesses of your consciousness. It's uncomfortable and hard, but once you do, you might be able to feel me."

Sherlock nodded, and as he stared in those diluted blue eyes, he isolated his point of awareness in his mind, expanded it, tried to feel the walls holding his consciousness in, to press against them. It felt strange, like he was rummaging through his brain and looking for something he had deleted or something he never knew nor saw.

Then, he felt it. It was like pressing his hands against plastic wrap, a thin membrane that held him in and kept the world out. It was fragile, but bendable and flexible, able to pull and warp and grabbed and not be torn.

He searched for the other walls, felt them, and then felt an intrusion. A breach in the membrane, sealed on the edges but swallowing his thoughts, and he tentatively pressed against it. He was instantly aware of John, his presence, his mind; he couldn't even describe the feeling, he just knew it was John and he was safe.

Sherlock heard John's voice in his mind, whispering but very, very clear in the silence of his devoted mind. _Can you hear me?_

_Yes. _Sherlock thought hesitantly, wondering if he had to think aloud for him to hear his answer.

_Good. You found me much quicker than I thought you would. Do you think you could recognize my mind anywhere?_

Sherlock thought about that one, focusing on the warm, fuzzy yet impossibly smart mind of John and was pretty sure he could find him amidst the boring minds of the mass population. _Yes._

_Even if I stood in the heart of London? A single cell of blood in the heart, of all the blood in the body? Of millions and millions of cells, could you isolate mine among them? _

Sherlock hesitated there. How many minds would he be able to even rub against until it wore him down, unable to search? _I…I don't know._

That was when Sherlock found out the connection between their minds was two ways, like a door; able to be stepped through in either direction once it was opened. So he pressed through the breach (it seemed no bigger than a quarter) and found himself in the mind of the fallen Angel.

The mind of an Angel, readers, is vast and complicated and impossibly big, and to a normal mortal, the second they laid their mental eyes upon it, their brains would melt. Quite literally.

But Sherlock was no normal mortal, and he looked upon John's mind with reverence and shock. In Sherlock's eyes, it was vast, like a towering cathedral, bathed in a womblike golden light. The immense knowledge he stored in this first cavern was dumbfounding. He was bombarded with memories of countless flights, of love and family and—

He was pushed out of the mind almost violently, and he went sprawling on the couch from sheer exhaustion. His heart was pounding and he felt like he had just ran a chase the length of London three times after no sleep for nearly a week. Yes, he had experienced both, but not back to back.

John was leaning against the couch, breathing hard, but then he seemed to recover and he looked at Sherlock with concerned and stern eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm…fine," Sherlock muttered, slowly sitting up. His head was pounding, and he had no desire to cut that protective membrane surrounding him again.

"Sherlock, you have to understand: my mind is so different than yours that it could instantly kill another human if they see it. You had only a glimpse of it, and if you have prolonged exposure to the knowledge I have, you _will_ die. Only access my mind in the most deadly, direst situation, and even then let me enter your mind."

Sherlock was dangerously interesting in John's mind, but he simply nodded.

"Are you ready to try again?" He was answered by another nod. "Okay. Now I'm going to stay out of your mind, and you'll have to break your own natural protection and locate my mind, yeah?"

The detective nodded, closed his eyes and strove to find the edges of his mind. He found the membrane easily, and pictured his hands pressing against it, fingering the thin barrier but unable to break it. He frowned, and dug the mental nails into it, and tore. He dragged his nails across it, leaving behind small tears, but when he tore it thinner and thinner, he felt himself pressing against the weak spot relentlessly.

Then it tore.

When one opens their mind, quite literally, their very being is exposed to the cruel world. Creatures like the Angels get used to it at a young age, but to a human who never so much as felt the boundaries of his mind, it was plain scary.

It was like being shielded and clothed his entire life, then suddenly striped of everything and thrown out onto a cold street.

His mind was bare, and he felt irrationally frightened. His mind, _his mind,_ was unprotected and skin dry. Feelings and sights and so much information overwhelmed him and he cringed, cried out, and retreated back into the quickly mending walls, back into his safe haven.

"Scary, isn't it?" John said once he was sure Sherlock was okay. "It's scarier than anything before, right? Well, whenever you're ready, tell me and you can try again."

-Fallen Angel-

Sherlock did, in fact, break through his mental protection and locate John's mind with a probe of his mind. By the time he did, though, he was pale and sweating, feeling a bone-deep, mental exhaustion that he never quite felt before. He slept longer after that than he ever remembered before.

And so started a tradition between the two. John would walk out when Sherlock was working on an experiment or on some occasions, sleeping, and go down the street or sit across the road from their flat and wait for him to notice. When Sherlock woke, he would find a text on his phone or a note pinned to the fridge saying **See if you can find me, Sherlock. No cheating. **

So Sherlock would open his mind, scour the flat and the street. As he got used to the feeling of his mind being bare and vulnerable, he felt his mind strengthening and he could stretch his mind to the flat across the street, then encompass the whole of Baker Street, then to Scotland Yard (which he amused himself for many hours messing with Anderson's thoughts, even though John told him not to) and beyond.

For this reason, when Sherlock woke tied to his bed, he didn't panic. He knew it was his bed—yes, he had been tied to his bed before thankyouverymuch—and felt the decently soft leather belts that held his arms to the rails and his ankles to the footboard.

Sherlock blinked his eyes and ran through a checklist in his mind. 1) Was he injured? He tested his bonds, clenched all of his muscles, rolled his neck; he was uninjured besides an aching head. 2) Was there anyone around? No. Mrs. Hudson had gone out, and he didn't sense John. 3) How did he get captured? He thought back, and remembered talking to John and going to his room to fetch his nightgown. He heard something behind him, but didn't remember what he saw when he turned around. So, someone came and hit him before he turned. John, most likely—after all, what burglar would tie him to his bed almost politely after knocking him unconscious?

4) What was around him that he could use to escape? He looked around, found his pocketknife moved to the far desk, but his phone leaned against his alarm clock. His hand was near the cord of it, and he tugged it and the phone crept closer to his dexterous fingers. It fell into them, and he pressed the okay button and read the following text:

**Sherlock, surely you've deduced I knocked you out. I had to do it as if you were captured and I was away. No escaping, just try to find me. No cheating, Sherlock! –JW**

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes and pressed against that thick membrane that protected his mind. He winced at the mental scars that were left behind from his first attempt, then slipped through his mind and extended himself through the flat, across Baker Street.

He thought this through before he got too tired. If he had done this to John, where would he hide? Where would he go if he had been captured?

The first obvious thought was Mycroft, and then dismissed it. John certainly wouldn't have gone to his brother. The second was to Scotland Yard, but Sherlock wasn't quite positive John would be there. After all, he would be able to detect Donovan or Anderson or Lestrade's mind shouting that John was there before he actually located John's consciousness.

Where would he go, where he wouldn't be noticed and yet comfortable until Sherlock woke? He thought through John's likes and habits. He obviously liked wide open spaces and cold air. He didn't like to be anywhere that he felt constricted or confined. He didn't adore the noise of the city, but didn't dislike it.

A solution popped into his stretched mind and he deemed it most likely and slithered his consciousness towards Regent's Park.

Once he was looking upon the park with his mental eyes, feeling the consciousnesses of the animals and tourists, he paused and then set out to find the glowing presence of his Angel. He searched long with his mind, retracing his steps several times and zigzagging along the paths. He felt himself get tired, a bone deep tired, and his mind literally stretched close to its limit, he saw a small, petite blonde man sitting calmly on a bench.

In his mind's eye, he could see a shimmering veil behind him, taking the vague form of his glorious wings, but not there physically. He sighed and stretched forward and pressed himself against John's mental guards.

John quickly engulfed his mind like a warm, fuzzy blanket. (Yes, even though Sherlock is a strict scientist, he can use words such as _fuzzy._ After all, there are no other words for the feeling of John's comforting presence.)

_Took you long enough,_ John's voice said in his mind. It resonated in his skull and he felt better and less stretched.

_Excuse me,_ Sherlock snapped back, though without convincing venom. His mental voice couldn't replicate his stinging slaps of words that his physical voice could achieve.

He heard the dim echo of a physical laugh that John couldn't contain to his mind. _Just sit still, I'll catch a cab and get you untied. Make sure to rest, you're mind will feel stretched for quite a while. Don't do anything unreasonable, Sherlock!_

Sherlock groaned slightly, feeling a flickering ache along the long trail of his mind to his tied up body. _Fine. _He pulled back from John's mind and rewound himself, picking up the rope of his mind and wrapping it on his arm like a hose. He pressed back through his vulnerable mind and gasped as he opened his eyes.

His body was aching and his vision flickering from exhaustion, something he's not used to but experienced before. Sherlock groaned and let his body go limp, waiting for John to get back and untie him. He obviously could have got out himself, but he had just stretched his mind close to its breaking point, and he was very happy to let John do it for him.

After all, neither of them was in any trouble, and he could relish his most recent victory.

If he would have checked his phone, he would have seen five texts from Mycroft and three missed calls. In his vigorous endeavor to find John, he had missed the ringing of his phone as his brother desperately tried to contact him.

Why, you ask?

If you remember, Mycroft is best pals with CCTV cameras. That doesn't discount the _event_ that happened about a week before.

**Sorry for the wait! I had writer's block for nearly the entire find-John thing and yeah. I know there are mistakes in here somewhere, so please forgive them. **

**This one was just a Sherlock getting used to a winged telepathic John kind of thing. The next chapter is Mycroft figuring John's, ahem, uniqueness, and an Angel holiday! Yay!**

**And holidays always bring us closer to the end.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	9. Crimson Tears

Crimson Tears

_Book 3_

'John and Sherlock'

The lives of our couple wasn't all wings and rainbows and games of mind tag, let me tell you. After all, there was Mycroft, the possible and imminent rescue of Angels, and the unknown threat of a fallen (and hungry) demon closing in around them. One can only fend off so many desperate attackers at once.

There was also the fact that John was infected and slowly dying of that poison in his scar. I'm not being figurative, here, dear readers, when I say that he was dying of that poison. The Howlers did poison him with their filthy claws, and the magic couldn't hold it back forever. Sooner or later, John would die of the curse he bore on his breast.

He still suffered, John did, every night. Howlers scream in the darkness, and when John was alone in his bed, gazing into the suffocating darkness, he felt the stab in his shoulder again and again. It burned like white hot iron, fire eating at his heart and clawing at his throat and in his mind, hurting but never killing.

John would lie in his bed, sweating and suffering in the darkness, clinging to the damp sheets and holding back his cries and throwing up viscous walls around his mind so Sherlock wouldn't be able to sense his discomfort. But it was hopeless to think, to believe, that he would be able to hide it from Sherlock forever.

It was a particularly horrible and anguishing night, where John was desperately holding in his cries as he lay stiff and damp in his horribly uncomfortable bed. The room was stifling hot even though it was almost forty degrees. He tried putting up thicker shields around his mind, but that in and out of itself would attract Sherlock just as much as if he had been aware of his pain.

He did it anyway and rode through a horrible, racking wave of pain.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had opened his mind to the two floors of their flat and felt John's extra protection. He frowned, focusing in on his mind without giving himself away. He sensed the wavering protection, almost saw and felt occasional stabs of pain in his breast that were actually John's.

He was on his feet in an instant, and at John's door at the next. Sherlock carefully rapped on the door. "John?" he asked the wood. He didn't receive an answer, so he opened the door and stepped in.

He was met with startling darkness and small sounds of pain from the man consumed in the unforgiving darkness. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw John stiff on his bed, his pale face covered in beads of sweat and drawn tight in pain. His eyes were bagged with dark smudges and they were squeezed shut.

"Sherlock," the pained Angel whispered, mangled and hoarse. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, hands hovering over the inflamed and almost throbbing scar on his shoulder, blackened and spidery.

"John," the consulting detective whispered back. "What can I do?"

"Window?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but he quickly went over to the window and threw it open as far as it would go. Cold, damp night air washed over him and made him involuntarily shiver. John only seemed to get a little less uncomfortable, but nothing substantial.

"What else? Water? Anything?"

John shook his head, and slowly opened his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes wide and filled with pain. "No," he croaked. His eyes said otherwise, and Sherlock could understand what the eyes were saying even though he dared not enter the Angel's mind.

Sherlock carefully reached out and slipped his long fingers between John's fist, and the Angel's hand loosened, allowing the human to hold his hand in a tight, comforting grip. John swallowed and closed his eyes, betraying how much he hurt, crimson tears silently falling down his pale cheek.

The not-Angel took this as a discreet, but begging sort of prayer that told him not to let John battle this alone. And he knew at that instant that he would do anything, sacrifice anything from his work to his body for his Angel, his John. So he sat on the bed, holding John's hand still, closed his eyes and pressed his mind against John's. He engulfed the Angel's mind in his own, not looking in the mind, but becoming one with his body and feeling the pain.

Sherlock wrapped his own resolve, his own Sherlockian magic around the flaming, fiery poison in the scar and felt it burn in his own breast, but that was fine, because he felt John relax and heard his sigh. He heard his mumbled 'thank you' and found he didn't want to leave, not at all. So Sherlock did what any reasonable Sherlock would have done in that position, unable to go more than a comfortable twenty feet away from John and not really wanting to either. He laid down next to the Angel, nose to nose, hand in hand, mind in mind.

Being in another's mind, completely engulfed in each other's essence is so gorgeously intimate that no physical ritual can compete. They could practically think each other's thoughts as they thought them, feel each feeling the other felt, literally crawl in the other's skin and lay there, comforted and warm and safe.

Sherlock watched, felt, thought, and heard as John smiled and drifted off into a comfortable, deep sleep, the pain in his chest no more painful than a random bout of heartburn. (Excuse the choice of words)

Sherlock stayed in John, watched his slack and peaceful face, and then drifted off into sleep after him, not pulling back from John's being, but remaining in the Angel's essence deep into the night and well past first light.

-Fallen Angel-

Mycroft came at eleven in the morning. Sherlock was downstairs, having already woken and spoken with John and letting the Angel drift back into sleep. He was carefully looking over a somewhat interesting site on his laptop when his brother strode in without much introduction or glamour.

"Sherlock," he said his tone icy, eyes even more so.

Sherlock didn't even bother to respond, other than a curl to his lip. He decided then if Mycroft spoke too loudly he would throw his laptop at him.

"I must speak to you."

"Seeing as you already are, I must say it would be desperately important. I'm busy, now go away."

"Sherlock, you must not stay in contact with John Watson. He is not…_agreeable_ to you."

The detective stiffened, and Mycroft saw he was visibly enraged. Sherlock stood, his laptop crumpling forgotten to the floor as he stared his brother down.

"John is very much _agreeable_ to me, Mycroft, and I would very much appreciate it if you stay out of his—our—affairs."

"Sherlock, he is—"

"_Different?"_ Sherlock spat, not letting his brother finish. _"A freak?" _

"Nothing of the sort. He is—"

"Not amused that you are talking about him behind his back," a tired and sleep coated voice said from the stairs. Both Holmes brothers turned towards it, one smirking and the other annoyed he had managed to slip in without him noticing.

"John Watson, I perceive?" Mycroft said more than asked, nodding towards him, hands clenching almost invisibly on his umbrella.

"Doctor John Watson to you," he said, ignoring the spark of annoyance in the politician's mind. He had already broken through the slight protection on his mind and reading all of his thoughts and memories. _He knew._

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft corrected, smiling but eyes an icy flame. "I was just going to ask my brother to call you down. I would prefer if you did not live with my brother any longer."

"I don't care what you prefer," John said, shocking both of them. "It isn't much of your business what I do, now is it?"

"It is if it interferes with the well being of my brother," Mycroft snapped back, irritated by both the man's words and the breach in his mind, one his mind was acutely aware of but he didn't know it was the infuriating doctor in front of him.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back, very much satisfied by John's satisfaction he felt through their open mental connection they hadn't broken. "If you _must_ know, I haven't done drugs since I met John. Yes, even take some hair—look at my arms! Not a fresh puncture mark anywhere on my body. Check the flat with hounds and your men, Mycroft—there are no drugs anywhere. Now, leave my flat before I throw you out the window."

Mycroft smiled tightly at his brother's rudeness. He saw that speaking would do nothing to get this _creature_ away from his brother. "Of course," he said smoothly, "I will be leaving you now. Sherlock, Doctor Watson." With that, an icy glare to the stiff and set doctor, he left with a twirl of his umbrella.

When the politician closed the front door, John relaxed and sat heavily on the stair behind him and laughed. "Wow," he said. "You're brother is certainly a different one."

Sherlock curled his lip at that. "I'm very aware, John."

Sherlock felt John's amusement while John felt Sherlock's deep seated aggravation towards his brother. "He knows, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, understand immediately what he meant. "He knows? Ah, CCTV cameras, of course. He must have been abroad when _it_ happened and only found out now."

John nodded, agreeing, and looked out the windows. Sherlock sensed the change of his thoughts; saw the color shift from an amused sort of yellow to a worried kind of grey. Though they maintained a connection, they could not read each other's thoughts, nor did they enter one another's minds. They could only press against where they had joined, and sense the shift in their thoughts, but once the thought broke into the rope like connection the other could hear it.

"Sherlock," he said after a while, carefully guarding his thoughts. "Tomorrow is July 9th, right?" At Sherlock's nod, he continued, "Well, it's a very certain day tomorrow, very dear to Angels. There's no human language that can describe it; there is only the word in the Angel's language. It's a time where from last light…sunset to first light, every Angel in all of the Palaces flies. Never stopping, just a constant ring of Angels flying through the night and unite themselves."

Sherlock caught on instantly. "You want to fly?"

John nodded. "Even though I'm Fallen, it doesn't mean I'm not an Angel. I have a duty to fly, not to ground the race simply because I'm on the surface. I want to fly, to show them I'm safe and happy."

Sherlock smiled and nodded, and put his hand comfortingly on John's shoulder. "You should go. After all, it would be night and easy to fly unnoticed. Would you be able to maintain our connection?"

"For a while," John said. "Not for the entire trip, but for a good bit. I'd contact you as I entered London."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, and sealed the pact of death with his smile.

**Awesome. Done in one day—I'm so proud. ^_^ But, on the other hand, probably filled with little mistakes, so excuse them, pretty please. =)**

**I love this part, personally. Just them embracing each other's minds, it's a much less explicit version of what *cough* could have happened. Much more romantic, I think, as well. After all, how many couples can immerse themselves in their lover's mind?**

**Two things before I say adieu:**

**REVIEW. ELSE I SET HOWLERS ON YOU. **

**I do not own Sherlock *sob* nor its characters, but the plot is mind.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	10. Angels are Red, Fallen are Blue

Angels are Red, Fallen are Blue

_Book 3_

'John'

The holiday John was speaking of was in fact, something near the name of 'Uniting of the Pure,' and it was just as John described it. Every Angel from every Palace (in order of population, they are the Blue Palace, the Sunset, the Red, the Silver, the Gleaming and the Violet) flies through the sky, on the moonlight's back, flying through every Palace's territory to see every part of their land and getting home before first light.

John felt it in his bird like bones that this night was the night of the Uniting of the Pure and he was determined to fly with his brethren. So he climbed to the top of flat and stood on the roof, away from the searching CCTV cameras and the obvious men that were stationed to spy on them. John was an Angel, though, and when he chose not to be seen, he would not be, no matter if you knew he was standing right in front of you.

Sherlock stood at the window, his face stony and he knew that Mycroft would see the 'anger and annoyance' in his features, and so the cameras would be stationed on him. He held John's mind, and his actions played in the back of his mind like a dusty puppet show. He felt him stand on the edge of the building and let himself fall, then he felt a great power surge through him and his wings grew and the Angel soared off into the night.

John flew up high into the sky, the air gloriously cold and sharp in his throat, chilling his overheated lungs and soothing his dull headache that hadn't dispersed. He stretched the rope of the connection with Sherlock was taut as it would go, then as he flew too far away he let it snap with a soft goodbye.

He soared up as high as he dared, not willing to get too close to the greedy claws of the Howlers once again, and the light of the full moon shone on his wings and made them glisten like gems, it shone on his skin and seeped power into his mind. The stars were gorgeous flickering flames of light licking at the darkness surrounding them, lighting the sky with their soft light.

John flew on the soft wind, no other sounds but the air flowing of his wings and his soft, easy breathing, and the world was laid out at his feet and he watched it pass with wonder, wondering how he came to love it more than the soft cloudlike buildings of his Palace, wondering how these humans, nothing more than beasts, had come to claim him with such gentle of touches and kind words.

With a sudden longing to hear his fellow Angels, he looked up to the silent sky above him and wondered for only a moment why he couldn't see his people. Then it dawned on him that the layer of Howlers that separated the Earth and the Palaces blocked his view of the others, but the flying Angels above him could see him.

He occasionally caught a glimpse of a small breach in the Howlers, spotting a wing, a hand, occasionally a face, staring at him, smiling, pointing, waving, laughing. He decided he wanted to hear their words, the pure words, and with a surge of his wings, flipped upside down and flew with his back to the surface.

John didn't dare put his mind against the Howlers, so he searched for a word in his vast vocabulary and called, _"Liona es florei!"_

The translation to that, mortals, is 'please speak to me!'

The answer was immediate. _"Merci!" _ He heard first, then _"Merci, ahja!"_

Merci is the equivalent to John. Merci is his name as an Angel, while John is his name as a human. 'Ahja' is a greeting, not quite hello, not quite hi. Not informal, but not completely formal.

As Angelic words were pushed through the Howlers, he caught more glimpses of his own kind, women and men all in their silky robes of spun air and clouds (made from their minds and magic), wings of all colors extended. He saw a woman, with mahogany colored hair and wings, her face beautiful and carved and shining in the moonlight. He saw the band of red on her sleeve and the tattoo on her wrists. Her feet were bare and around her ankles were the same intricate tattoos, like bracelets. She was from the Red Palace.

John waved and smiled and told them he was fine, he was happy, he was safe and to tell his mother as well. He asked of her well being and got this response, translated back to English:

"Oh John, she is not well. She watches you every day but you are hidden from view and she is sick with worry. She is strong for the other Palaces and her people, but we know she is not well on the inside."

"Tell her I'm safe," he said in the Angel language, and it resonated through the air like bird song. "I'm happy."

He could almost sense the message being sent along the countless chain of minds above him. He smiled and flipped back over, and when he closed his eyes he could almost feel the other Angels flying with him, side by side and laughing and speaking their pure language. He smiled and opened his eyes once more, knowing that Red Palace Angel was flying above him, the thought of bonding in her mind, but the thought of beauty in his.

He flew with his ivory cape and with the moonlight on his back and his brethren by his side.

-Fallen Angel-

All night he flew, and when the light of the sun started streaking over the horizon, he turned and flew into a strong air current, soaring on it towards Great Britain again. The ocean below him was vast and the bluest of blues and wavering and shimmering with the faint morning light. The salty cold air was painful and soothing at the same time, something he had come to like, even love.

He soared high above England, smiling with the wind and feeling so light, so gloriously light. Even though he found he liked the ground, the security of the compact earth beneath his fragile feet, he loved the soft air under his wings and the feeling he was no heavier than a faint feather, or a hummingbird. To feel his wings stretched out, the wind slipping on his face, under his wings, along his body and trickling over his toes.

As he started to smell the comforting London air, he stretched his mind out and grabbed onto Sherlock's shining and heavily protected mind. Heavily protected as in more protected than the average human, but startlingly vulnerable to an Angel or a Howler.

He sensed Sherlock's relief almost instantly. _Good flight?_

_Very good, _John replied. _I'm over London, I'll be landing soon._

_Don't, _Sherlock suddenly hissed, after a comfortable silence had sat between them. _Lestrade just came, damn him, and you won't be able to land quietly. _

John knew he was right, but that didn't help that he had started his dive towards Baker Street. He turned sharply, tilted his wings up and surged up into the air again, and searched for safe landing spot. _Fine. But I don't have any money for cab, so I'll be walking back._

_Don't severe our connection,_ Sherlock suddenly ordered. John had to smile with a glowing warmth in his gut, and he knew that Sherlock could sense it through their connection.

_Never._

John struggled for a while to find a landing spot, and eventually found one on a nearly deserted building, and climbed down the side of the building. With a single thought, his wings disintegrated. He had practiced for many hours to have his wings appear and disappear on his command, and now had it down to an art.

He had nothing but a shirt with two slits neatly cut in the back and jeans, no shoes and nothing else. He walked slowly down the street, listened absently to Sherlock's physical conversation with Lestrade, but found he was lost very quickly. He didn't know this part of town and had no desire to enter a thug's dirty mind to find out.

_Sherlock,_ he thought, but Sherlock was in an animated argument with Lestrade. He waited for a break and said _Sherlock_ again.

_What? _Was the irritable thought back. _Damn, Lestrade, I don't care! Ah, sorry, meant to say that aloud. Uh, what's wrong?_

_Lost. Very, very lost._

_One minute!_

John listened as Sherlock argued with Lestrade and then stomped to his room, unable to hold a physical and mental conversation at the same time without telling one person something he had meant for the other.

_Where are you?_

_If I knew that, I wouldn't be lost, Sherlock!_

_Ah, slow of me, sorry. Show me a 360 degrees view, John._

But John didn't respond. He was occupied with the approach of two heavily built men. One was taller, with broad shoulders, a goatee and rough and tough looking clothes hanging loosely on his streamlined frame. The other was shorter and leaner, but by no means weaker. He had spiffier clothes, a gleaming jacket and shining shoes, but a dirty, malformed face and dirty blonde hair hanging over his dangerously gleaming eyes.

"Need some help, Dr. Watson?" the smaller one asked him.

"No, I'm fine, what—"

Before he could finish his sentence, one of the men sprang forward and hit him over the head, in the side above his ear, the Achilles heel of the Angels. His mind went blank and he fell to the ground, not staying conscious long enough to hear Sherlock's panicked cries.

**Phew! That was fun, was it not? Ah, creating the Angel language is fun! All pure and rounded and nice and glittery. ^_^ **

**On that note, Bonding is the equivalent of marriage, if you didn't piece it together.**

**Sorry if there are any mistakes, I tend to have an impressive array of them. Also, I do not own Sherlock or its characters. **

**The title comes from that John is of the Blue Palace, and the female Angel was of the Red Palace. So, 'Angels are red' as in that woman and 'fallen are blue' as in John is Blue. I'm a very literal person, and would not have realized that if I had not been told. Those who are like me, you're welcome.**

**Thank you all who reviewed (all fifteen of you) and I give you all wonderful hugs and protection from the wrath of the Howlers I am about to release upon those who read and did not review. *cheeky smile* Those who didn't review, I have asked, begged and now threatened. Don't make me go further. R.E.V.I.E.W. N.O.W. **

_**R.E.V.I.E.W. PLEASE! I LOVE REVIEWS!**_

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	11. Sherlock Is Human No Matter His View

Though Sherlock is Human No Matter His View

_Book 3_

'Sherlock'

Sherlock was not ecstatic that John was going on a night long flight, but he was not upset either. He didn't like that he was out of his sight, but knew he was an Angel and needed to fly alone sometimes, and that he was not human. He had to be with his own kind, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

So he sat on pins and needles after John had severed their connection—he had given John fifteen minutes and twenty seconds, and he had lasted almost twenty six minutes—through most of the night, ignoring his almost constantly buzzing phone. It was mostly Mycroft, though near the morning it was Lestrade's texts filling up his inbox. He read them at first then got bored and let his phone ring out.

When John touched his mind again near seven in the morning, he sighed audibly and spoke to him, and he distantly felt John flying strong, though with a comfortable burn in his wings and back. He was jerked from relaxing on the couch, a dreamy smile on his face (he was not aware of it, but I was!) when Lestrade strode in, his face set but anxious.

"Sherlock," he said dangerously, "We need to talk."

Sherlock sent an alarm to John, and felt him pull out of his dive and veer away.

"I'm not interested, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled, standing and wandering deliberately to the kitchen.

"I don't care, Sherlock. We need to talk about John and his staying with you."

Sherlock, very irrationally mad that this man would talk that way about _his_ Angel, slammed his fist on the table with a sudden fiery explosion of passion. Lestrade jumped, shocked by the sociopath's excess emotion.

"Do _not_ bring John into this!"

"Into what, Sherlock? What have I said to make you think we are in anything? John is changing you—"

"Yes, I am aware, Lestrade! He is! Now if you would like to continue living on this Earth, I would suggest getting out of my flat!"

"Are you threatening me, Sherlock?" Lestrade was absolutely outraged by the younger man's words, and his voice cracked with indignation of the threat.

"No, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I am not; I am simply suggesting you leave before I throw you out my bedroom window!"

"Sherlock Holmes, if you threaten my again, I'll have you arrested! Sherlock? Are you listening?"

Sherlock had been distracted by John speaking in his mind, and had zoned out to stare at an evil smiley face shot into the wall. He shook his head and looked confused for a moment before focusing back onto the situation at hand.

"Yes, of course I am," he spat, with much more venom than before. Only John, in his mind, could see that it was a show. "I do not _care_ that you could arrest me, Lestrade, nor do I even have a small urge to care. But in this instant, if you do not get out of my flat, I will give your _officers_ good reason to want to arrest me—not that they ever could, by the way. Now _leave!"_

Lestrade had not expected such a violent reaction to a simple line of inquiry. He watched with wide eyes as Sherlock stomped off to his room, slamming the door violently behind him.

Sherlock touched his temples and spoke with John, studiously ignoring the fact that he sensed Lestrade hovering in his living room.

_Where are you? _He received a snappy reply and spoke back, frazzled slightly by John's overwhelming sense of being lost. His Angel was distracted, though, by the approach of two men, who would have been threatening to anyone else besides the Angel. He felt a sudden jolt of pain in his head that was really John's, and cried out both physically and mentally when John's mind went suddenly and dangerously black.

"_John!" _ He cried. _"John!"_

His Angel did not reply, though, and he only felt a startling darkness on the other end of his connection. He screamed with both his voice and his mind, but it was in vain. The only thing that came out of his shouting was Lestrade barging into his room quite forcefully, only to find Sherlock standing in the middle of his room, clutching at his head, pulling out the obsidian curls.

Lestrade reached out for Sherlock, shouting over the detective's ranting cries, but when he touched him Sherlock screamed, throwing him off, and shouting over Lestrade. His main shout was _"John, wake up! Speak to me! Don't leave me alone!"_

"John's not here!" Lestrade shouted. "He's not here!"

"I know!" Sherlock yelled. "He's out there; he's hurt and—_shut up!"_

The room went quiet and Sherlock clutched his head, muttering to himself, desperately searching for John's absent sparkling mind. He found a void of a mind, something he nearly overlooked, and clutched onto it with both hands.

He pressed against John's still guarded mind, shouting against it, but John was out cold. He wrapped himself around John's consciousness, not unlike the nights he would bear John's curse with him, and tried to literally put himself in John's position.

He was aware of the sounds first. John's mind was still active, just locked and paused. He was still very aware of his surroundings, just unable to grasp the light of his consciousness. He heard the sound of a heavy motor, the screeching of tires on torn up pavement, the sound of cackling laughter. Sherlock then became aware of the feeling of tight ropes on his wrists, on his ankles, a dirty rag in his mouth and tied around his head.

Then came the debilitating weight on his chest. It was like there was a man sitting on his sternum and he could barely breathe. The air was hot and dry and like sand in his throat, and the weight was almost enough to make him black out.

_Is this what you feel like every day, John? _Sherlock wondered absently. _I'm so sorry._

There was also a blaring pain in his head, right above his ear, and his scarred shoulder was screaming with pain. Either because his arms were tied behind his back roughly or because he lying on it. But there were, readers, another reason, but that was unknown to both Sherlock and the unconscious John.

The car stopped viciously and he felt John's body tumble against the seat ahead of him. Several sets of hands grabbed a hold of his body and threw him to the unforgiving and cold ground.

_Come on, John, _Sherlock desperately muttered, physically and mentally. _Show me where you are. Show me!_

John may have been unconscious, but he was not dead. He heard Sherlock's plea, and his sub consciousness delivered. His eyes were shut, so he could not give a visual view of his surroundings. So he gave what he could.

Sherlock was only slightly relieved when he got a sort of map of the area around John's body. It was a blurry, indistinct sense of the surface. He sensed three heated shapes huddled near him, and a grumbling mass that could only be the vehicle that had brought him there. There was a squat, shambled building (maybe it was a warehouse, it was hard to tell with the shifting and gray sense) and it look vaguely familiar, but it struck home when John's limp body up and he had a view of it.

Sherlock snapped himself back to his body, to see the distraught eyes of the Detective Inspector searching his face.

"They have John!" He said, breathlessly, and he staggered for a moment before he regained his feet and ran out of his room. "I know where he is!"

"Sherlock, how could you possibly know where he is? You're rambling!"

"I am not!" Sherlock snapped, turning on him. "You're just far too dull and _human_ to keep up! Now either give me a ride or I'll run all the way to the warehouse!"

Lestrade instantly knew which warehouse Sherlock was talking of. "Sherlock, I was very clear that if you started on drugs again—"

Sherlock could have screamed with frustration. "I am not on drugs! John was kidnapped and he will be killed if I do not get to him! Lestrade, trust me, please!"

Lestrade had only heard Sherlock say please twice in the entire time he had known him. Once when he had been raving mad on drugs, and this time, he thought, he might just be on drugs as well. But his eyes were clear, his voice was sharp, and he looked very much clean. And a plea was a plea, no matter which way you cut it, and Lestrade knew Sherlock was not kidding when he said he would run to the warehouse where he used to buy his drug of choice.

"Fine," Lestrade sighed, watching as the younger man's eyes lit up and then he went rushing for his coat, gun and scarf. All, the detective inspector did not fail to notice, were within three feet of each other. Sherlock threw his coat on and rushed out of his flat, reaching out with his mind again, only to find not a soul within the warehouse or anywhere near it.

He faltered for only a moment when he found no living creature near the warehouse, but plowed on relentlessly and forced Lestrade to move faster. When they were speeding along London roads with the sirens blaring, Sherlock found himself watching in very slow motion as a car rolled in front of them, blocking the path. He opened his mouth to shout, to warn the others, but the police car turned around it, and smashed the left side of the hood to the back of the offending car.

The police car jerked, turned, and rolled. The glass shattered and the sound of crunching and snapping metal filled Sherlock's ears, along with the coarse shouting of Lestrade and another police officer mending with his own. He shouted only once, for three seconds, before he snapped his mouth shut as they rolled and then the world went black when his head smashed into the door beside him.

**All good books end with a car crash, yeah? =) Book 4 will start soon, I guess. But, to tell you the truth, I kind of lost track of the books and stuff. So, don't really bother with them, they're just there to be there.**

**Again, sorry for any mistakes there are. I can't catch all of them, and even if I did, it would add another day before I published it. I personally think a few mistakes are worth a day of less waiting. **

**I do not own Sherlock *wail sob* or any of its characters. **

**Oh, the title may not make obvious sense, but it rhymes with the last title. It makes sense if you don't think about it. *smile* Try reading them together, it sounds much better.**

**Please review. Please? The Howlers wouldn't listen to me. (They seem to have more mercy than me. Does that say anything about my personality?) I like reviews. I do not, however, like to threaten my readers with the demons of our nightmares.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	12. Inner Demon

Inner Demon

_Book 4_

'John, Sherlock, and a very dangerous enemy'

John woke very suddenly and very painfully. It was like his mind suddenly snapped awake and all of the sensations around him overwhelmed his unguarded mind, and it hurt more than John would have expected. He groaned and jerked his head up, neck stiff, and nearly screamed at the horrible pain that seemed to choke him.

The most pain that he noticed first was in his wrists. His head was hurting and foggy from being knocked out, but his wrists were bound above his head so his shoulder was stretched awkwardly and painfully, and his wrists were positively burning. He looked up, gaining his feet on the cold floor, and saw his wrists were bound with iron manacles, and there was dried golden blood that traced lines down his arms.

He gasped and arched his back against the hard, rough wall and hissed as his wrists suddenly started to burn. He noticed a faint glimmer on the inside of his manacles, and cursed. The manacles were dusted with gold flakes. Unlike what humans thought, gold was not pure, and it was like, well, kryptonite to Angels. It burned their flesh and made their golden blood boil.

He was standing against a cold wall, his arms bound with gold-encrusted manacles, shirt discarded and his golden blood like spider webs running down his arms and matting the hair on the side of his head. His muscles were burning and his neck, back and shoulders were stiff. John knew that if his captor knew gold burned him that he was very aware of the Angels and their weaknesses he was either an Angel himself or a heavily informed human.

When he opened his eyes again and looked around his prison, he became aware of two facts. One was his mind was sluggish and dulled, and he had very little protection around his mind and he could not monitor his surroundings. The second was that he was not alone. He heard the heavy breathing of someone very close by.

"Johnny boy!" A singsong voice rang out, and it hurt the Angel's ears like a dog whistle. "Have you figured it out yet?"

He blinked and stood a bit straighter; lifting his arms a bit higher to minimize the area the gold touched his skin. He didn't respond to the horrifying voice.

"Tisk tisk!" the voice sung, closer now, and it made John's flesh crawl. "I really expected more from you, Johnny. Really I did. But I suppose this could make you speak."

At that, a painfully bright light flicked on from the ceiling above John's head, and he was blinded before his eyes adjusted unnaturally quickly to the light. He gasped at what he saw.

A man was slumped on a chair before him, tied to a chair mercilessly by rough rope and handcuffs binding his hands behind the back of the wooden chair. There was blood on his leg, and crusted on the side of the man's pale face. His ebony curls were matted and pulled out in some places, and his clothes were torn, frayed and dirty. Sherlock groaned, his head lolling on his shoulders and cringing against the painful light. There were many scratches marring his porcelain skin.

"Sherlock," John whispered.

"I kna-WHO it!" the voice rang out, drawing out the 'who' of the word _knew._

"Let us go!" John snapped, pulling against his restraints then regretting it as the gold burned deeper into his already injured wrists.

"Not a chance, Johnny," the voice mocked, dangerously close now. "Or should I say _Merci?"_

The name hit him like a slap and Sherlock's eyes became less clouded at the Angelic word. John cringed and yelled, "How do you know my name?"

"_Everyone _knows _your _name, Merci!" The voice sung happily. "But do you know mine?"

"How could I?"

"I saddened by your lack of effort, Merci," the voice said, and then it suddenly had a face.

Generic was the first word that came to mind. But the black hair was slick and his eyes were bugging out of his head, a horribly gleeful smile on his expressive lips. His suit was spiffy, clean and totally unsuited for the conditions the three men were facing.

John's breath caught in his throat, and he took a hesitant whiff through his nose. He gasped and coughed viscously.

"Ah ha!" The man said gleefully. "You know who I am then? Well, go on! Tell our _human_ friend, why don't you?"

John winced and looked at Sherlock, who had sat up straighter in his chair and looked at him with confused and his extraordinarily clever eyes for the moment.

"Who is he, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice hoarse.

"A Howler, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's a Howler."

The Howler laughed happily. "You seem so surprised! Of course I'm a Howler! Not in my true form, of course, you human would have been vaporized by now. I took the form of a human to survive after I fell."

"A fallen Howler?" John laughed mirthlessly, unable to help himself.

The demon looked at him with malevolent eyes that made John shut his mouth and cower against the wall.

"Yes, I fell. I decided I liked the humans and became one of them, more or less. I gave myself a fun little name: Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal! It was so fun seeing how they reacted, how their pathetic police force tried to stop me! So many crimes, so many murders." The words rolled of his tongue and he was smiling at John's obvious fear. "Oh, but then I smelled an Angel! How delicious, the smell of pure flesh among these beasts. But I could not reach you, not yet. So I waited, and I knew you would not resist the Uniting, so I waited to finally be able to have my meal until now. But, personally, I like to play with my food before I eat it."

The demon had prowled forward to John, ignoring the human completely, and crowded the Angel with his taller form. He knew all Angels were claustrophobic to an extent, and he saw Merci cower against the wall and away from him, and he smiled devilishly.

Moriarty grinned and dragged one finger along John's cheek, and John cried out and tried to get away from his poisonous touch, but it was no use. The single fingertip left a line of golden blood and a red rash flaring up all around the shallow cut. John clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes, not looking at the Howler, not giving him the pleasure of hearing him scream.

"Ah, Merci, none of that," Moriarty purred, and cupped his jaw. John cried out again and hit his head against the wall, trying to get away, but unable to stop two trails of crimson tears running down his face. Quite sadly, John was crying blood. Not literally, but his tears were a blood red and devastatingly beautiful.

"Leave him alone!" Sherlock screamed, yanking against his bonds, unable to see his Angel crying and wound up tight with pain. The chair was nailed to the floor but he strained against his bonds for all he was worth.

Moriarty let go of John and smiled as his head rolled forward as the Angle tried to cope with the pain. He turned and looked at the struggling human.

"Ah, you're the one who stole the Angel's heart, am I right?" Moriarty smiled viscously but Sherlock did not shrink away from his hateful glare. "A mere human, how pathetic. Tell me, does my touch hurt you?"

He grabbed Sherlock's neck, wrenching it backwards, and Sherlock hissed for only a moment by the startling coldness of the demon's flesh, burning like liquid nitrogen. He glared into the demon's eyes but did not respond, though his skin was turning an angry red around Moriarty's hand.

"Not the reaction I was expecting," Moriarty said, but he smiled and Sherlock knew he was in for much more torture than that. "How quaint. But I know what will get you screaming, and it will certainly not be because of any injury on your part."

Before he finished the sentence, Moriarty had let Sherlock's neck go and strode to John, who had lifted his head to watch Sherlock with fearful and pained eyes. He stared at Sherlock even as the demon grew closer, but was forced to look away when the Howler thrust him against the wall behind him and slammed his palm over the scar on his shoulder.

John couldn't help himself. He screamed, head hitting the wall behind him and every muscle in his body going as taut as a bowstring and the black lines of his scar rising and flaring a dangerous red and throbbing. He screamed and screamed, thrashing, crying.

Sherlock screamed for Moriarty to stop only after two and a half seconds of the horrible, heart wrenching sound of his Angel screaming. "Please! Stop it! I'll do anything! Please, please stop it! Don't hurt him anymore!"

Moriarty did not listen, but cackled as John continued to scream. The cackling not unlike Sherlock had heard in that forest when John had fallen almost three and a half months ago and it made the hair on Sherlock's neck and arms rise and sent fear pounding where his heart used to beat.

Dear readers, if Moriarty had only listened to Sherlock, the Angel would have surely died, and he would have killed Sherlock as well. But he pushed John too far by not letting go and so doomed himself. He didn't know that then, but knew it when John stopped screaming and went limp, hanging desolately from his bloody manacles.

Moriarty lifted his hand from his shoulder, pursing his lips, unable to feel a sense of keen satisfaction by the sunburn red handprint on the Angel's shoulder. He turned to look at the distraught Sherlock with an evil smile on his face, and so missed when John raised his head.

John's diluted blue eyes were gone. They were replaced with the electric, fierce blue of his inner soul. Of his inner Angel.

Of his inner demon.

**Bum bum bummm! How will John get them out of this one? A little magic and centuries old hatred, that's how! But at what cost? **

**I'm not too surprised to say that Moriarty strikes me as the fallen Howler of the series. The mother of all fallen Howlers (villains), I'd venture to say. But that's just me.**

**I know Moriarty doesn't like to get his hands dirty, but he's the only fallen Howler on the Earth and he's the only one who could sufficiently torture both Sherlock and John. John, mostly, and he wants to taste Angel flesh again. Ahem.**

**For the twelfth time, excuse any mistakes in here. **

**I don't own Sherlock or its characters. Very, very sadly.**

**Review? Please? Whoever gets the er…twenty sixth review gets a sneak peek of their choice to what happens next, what I have in mind for future stories about Angel John and Human Sherlock, or anything of their choice. Now I've resorted to bribing. Thanks.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	13. My Absent Angel

My Absent Angel

_Book 4_

'John, Sherlock and a Lost Prince'

Every living being has a dark side, no matter what the fiction writers or the overly optimistic say, and that includes the pure and loving Angels. Rarely does their evil show, but when it does, it is dangerous and explosive. Be out of an angry Angel's way is the life lesson of a lifetime.

And John Watson was not very controlling of his temper. He never had been, and certainly wouldn't hold it back now. His demonic side had broken through his happy exterior and now reared its ugly head to tear this Howler apart.

And that's exactly what John, lost in anger and pain and pure hatred, intended to do.

Moriarty saw the change in the human's face as he watched him. A flicker from him to the Angel, then his eyes widened and jaw lost a bit of tension. He turned, and staggered at what he saw.

John was lost. His eyes were lost in the electric blue, irises and even the whites of his eyes turned to the unnatural blue color. Both Howler and Human could see blue electricity crackling up his arms and down his body, around his head and fizzing the air around him. Though it wasn't electricity, it was John's defenses. Ahem, magic, as humans would call it.

He was pulling against the manacles, the earthly metal bending and distorting under his astounding strength, and he was unfazed by the burning gold. His magic was coursing through him and he did not feel it. With an almighty pull, his right manacle broke from the wall and hung sadly from his wrist, and his magic surged down the metal. Merci—he was certainly not the warm, lovable John Sherlock knew, this was hatred and pure power of the Angels—pulled his left hand free the same way.

The Angel then stood, eyes crackling blue and the magic coursing through the metal and over his body, and he seemed to tower over the Howler and Sherlock. He was…scary to say the least. Terrifying.

He took two steps forward and the Howler screeched, scrabbling backwards and around behind Sherlock, who didn't even notice because he was staring dumbfounded at the electric angel in front of him. His Angel. His.

"You can't touch me!" Moriarty screeched, throwing pride out the window with John's easy going demeanor. "You'll kill the human!"

In the very least, Moriarty was dead wrong. Merci was an Angel after all. He had his words, he had his magic, and he had his status.

"_You have disgraced the Angel and Human kind with your presence, Howler," _Merci said, his voice resonating with the power of his magic and mind. It shook both Howler and Human's down to their bones.

"_You broke the peace between the two societies," _the Angel continued. _"Your kind was warned what would happen if you did so."_

"You have no rights!" Moriarty screamed, clinging to the back of Sherlock's chair. "We are on neutral land!"

"_It matters not," _Merci said, taking another threatening step forward. _"You kidnapped and tortured an Angel. Now, Howler, do you know who I am? Take a guess, why don't you? See if you regret your actions."_

Moriarty was confused. Why would he be more special than any other than any other Angel? He knew they were a close knit breed, but why did it matter that he knows who Merci was?

And why did that damn name sound so familiar?

"_No guesses? I'm saddened, Howler. I am Merci__ Anjhelis __Caeruleus, or__P__rincipis et __S__pes __S__omnia__. I am the only son to Regina Amoris Iactura et. Also only blood of __Voluptatem __e__t __D__olorem __R__egem__. Does this ring a bell, Howler?"_

Ring a bell it did. Let alone the names, the Angel words were searing to the Howler's ears, and Moriarty clutched at them as he heard the names. He knew those names all too well.

"You're lying!" The Howler screeched, and Sherlock's head was ringing between the screeching of the demon and of the Angel words. "You are a lying wretch, Angel! You could not be him!"

"_Have you ever heard of a lying Angel, let alone one lying in the Language?"_

"John, who are you?" Sherlock yelled, his ears ringing and head throbbing, and he felt like his heart was going to burst from beating so fast. Why was John hiding who he was?

The dazzling, devastating blue eyes turned toward him and locked him in place. _"Sherlock, I am the Prince of the Blue Palace. I am Prince Merci."_

-Fallen Angel-

Obviously, Moriarty did not believe him. That was obvious when he crouched down and lifted a knife hidden in his pant leg, and then threw it as hard as he could at John. John was expecting it.

He snapped the sizzling chain up and it wrapped around the blade, and diverted its path from Angel heart to earthen floor. The Angel Prince looked at the Howler and knew he wanted revenge for all the dead Angels in the last Demon and Angel war. For his father, who died heroically in that very war, fifty seven years ago.

He pulled his hand back, holding on the chain with his hand, and whipped it to Moriarty with all of his strength. The chain wrapped around Moriarty's neck and burned his flesh, and the demon screamed. It was not as convincing as John's, but it made Sherlock cry out when his ears bled.

The Angel dragged Moriarty to him and replaced the super heated chain with his own hand, and surged magic into the demon's body, uncaring of the consequences. Moriarty screamed, gripping onto the hand, screamed for his life, howled for his brethren, then died in John's clutches.

He turned to ash and fell harmlessly to the floor.

Prince Merci only stared at the ash of the demon for a few short moments before he looked up at the human. He felt the rage dying down, with the energy and power with it. Before his eyes turned back to normal, the Prince used the chains to break Sherlock's bonds.

"Sherlock," he whispered as his eyes faded to the diluted blue that was much more comforting than the hatred crazy blue they had been. He staggered and fell to the ground, and didn't move.

"John!" Sherlock surged up and grabbed John, hissing when he touched the Angel's flesh. It was burning hot to the touch, but he hugged John to his chest and looked at his slack face.

"John," he whispered, stroking his head, running his fingers through the messed up hair soothingly. "John, look at me, please. Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need."

John did not respond for a terrifying five seconds, before his eyes fluttered open. He managed to rasp out, "roof," before his eyes closed again.

Sherlock frowned and stood up shakily, hissing as his probably broken leg buckled under the pressure. He was unsure if he could carry John, but knew even if he saw the bone stick out of his calf, he would get John to that goddamned roof.

The detective pulled up the fragile, unmoving John into his arms and carried him honeymoon style out of the room. There were no people anywhere to be found. Even when Sherlock forced his mind to occupy the building, he found not a living creature there. The explanation appeared before him instantly. No mortal could have sat quietly when both Angel and Howler had screamed. He had only survived because he knew how to protect his mind and had the iron will of the Angels.

He forced his way to the roof and laid John near the edge, but far enough away to be safe. He held the Angel on his lap, in his arms, stroking his face and not trying to mask the threatening tears in his eyes.

"John, we're on the roof now," Sherlock whispered. He saw the spidery black lines of the Howler poison wrapping all around his shoulder, up his neck and down as far as his hip. The Angel was struggling for breath and his chest rose and fell dangerously slow and harshly.

The Angel was dying. The Fallen Angel was breathing his last, harsh breaths.

John's eyes flickered open and he looked up at the gray, swirling sky. He seemed to struggle for words then whispered, "It looks like it's going to rain later, Sherlock."

John always managed to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. But Sherlock looked up as well and felt the sharp crispness of an upcoming storm. "Yes, it probably will, John. We can watch it from the window at home, if you want. I know you like rainstorms."

John smiled and breathed out harshly. "That would be nice." There was a short pause, with Sherlock still holding John close, and John just watching the sky.

"I have to go now," the Angel eventually said.

Sherlock clung to him tighter. "I know."

"I'll come back, I promise."

"You can't promise that, John."

"I can," John murmured. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

The Angel arched up in Sherlock's arms, and let out a wailing scream that was heard miles and miles away. The scream resonated high up into the sky.

Howlers screamed and dispersed.

Angels cried out and rejoiced.

Humans panicked and ran for shelter.

A single shaft of light broke through the gray mass of clouds and fell upon John and Sherlock. The dazzling sunlight hurt Sherlock's eyes, but John relaxed and closed his.

As Sherlock watched, three dots appeared in the light, three tiny black dots in the small sliver of the looming golden sea. The fell down the beam like falling stones, though managed it so it looked like graceful birds.

Three figures landed on the opposite side of the building, wings folded and hair windblown but beautiful. A man and two women. The man was tall, with a beautifully sculpted face, and light blonde hair that looked like hand woven sunlight. His skin was tanned but his face was sculpted like a cat's, graceful yet beautiful in its feline glory. His wings were pale with whiter highlights.

The first women was tall as well, with thick red hair that tumbled down her shoulders. Her face was feline as well, beautiful, and there were red tattoos on her wrists and ankles, with a red stripe on her cloud white robe. Her wings were wide, and the feathers red with deeper shadows.

The second woman was tall, voluptuous with graceful curves and pin straight blonde streaked hair. Her limbs were long and her face was sharper than the others' and her icy blue eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Her wings were long—not as long as John's, Sherlock estimated—and a startling white.

All three of them were silent, barefooted, and wearing similar white robes, with stony faces and their minds expertly guarded.

"Help me," Sherlock whispered, and then repeated louder, "Help him. Please, I won't hurt you or him. Just…help him."

He opened his mind willingly, and felt as the man entered his mind and surged through his memories faster than a strike of lightning. He pulled back and glanced at his two companions, obviously speaking through a mind connection, and nodded towards the Human and Angel.

The blonde woman started forward, wearily approaching them. Sherlock shifted around and loosened his hold on John to show them the state of the Prince. The woman hissed in her breath at the sight of him and approached much more easily.

She knelt in front of him and looked in his eyes, and tentatively touched his mind. He opened it willingly and she scoured through his memories as well. She looked in his eyes as he repeated, "Please, help him."

The female Angel gestured for the prince, and Sherlock hesitantly lifted John off of his lap and into the Angel's lap. His lower half only turned as his upper body was transferred from Human to Angel. John stirred and tensed somewhat, but relaxed at the touch of his own kind. The woman hissed once again at the prince's touch, startled as John's flesh burned into hers, very slightly, though.

"He's been poisoned," Sherlock explained, not knowing if they had memorized the English language yet. "He's dying—please help him."

The red haired woman approached him and spoke to him in perfect English.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "I'm John…Merci's friend. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

She smiled and touched her own chest. _"Curae,"_ she said. She repeated it again, tapping her own chest. Then she said, _"T__ueri__," _as she pointed to the male Angel, and then to the other woman as she said _"S__ortem__."_

With names established, she said once again in English, "We are going to help Merci. But not here. We must take him back to the Palace to heal him. He will be okay with us, Sher-rlock." She stuttered a bit over the foreign name, but managed it will enough.

Sherlock nodded, and watched as the blonde Angel picked John up easily, and the male, Tueri, helped her. He stood as well and put his hand on John's forehead, unable to stop tears from running down his face. He wiped them away as the three spoke through their minds, and the two carrying John took off and flew up the beam of light.

He watched them go, raising his hand in farewell, watching his Angel leave. Watching his John get carried away to the heavens, never to see him again. He knew John's promise was a lie.

The red headed woman, Curae, looked at him and smiled sadly, and her beautiful face surpassed any human woman's fake beauty. "He will be okay," she said, her words lightly accented.

"I know," he whispered. "But it doesn't help."

She was perplexed. "Why not?"

"I know he'll live, but I'll never see him again."

Curae bid him farewell, telling him empty promises, then took off effortlessly and flew up into the clouds.

Sherlock sat on the roof and watched the sky. He watched the hole in the clouds shrink and close. He didn't start crying until it rained, and hid his tears. He sat on the roof alone, crying, soaked to the bone and lost until Lestrade came bumbling onto the roof and found him there, eight hours later.

***tear* Goodness, that made me sad. I feel bad. Sherlock never cries. But for his Angel he does, I suppose.**

**Anyone see that coming? John, royalty? Impossible! …Possible, now! I didn't plan on naming the Angels, by the way. But if you want to hear the pronunciation, then go to Google Translate and type in 'luck', 'to protect' or 'protect', and 'care' to translate to Latin. Merci is something I pulled off the top of my head. **

**Switch the thing to Latin to English to find out what the King and Queen's names are. I don't even remember. **

**Excuse any mistakes, pretty please. =)**

**I don't own Sherlock or its characters. *huge sigh***

**I picked a random number for the lucky review to get a sneak preview of the next chapter/sequel. So review. Please? I love reviews. Tell me if you hated or loved or are indifferent about this chapter. I'm not sure how you'll all react to it.**

**Stay Happy,**

_**Spirit**_


	14. Cape of Ivory, Kisses of Forgiveness

Cape of Ivory, Kisses of Forgiveness 

_Epilogue_

'John and Sherlock'

John opened his eyes.

It was like a spontaneous reawakening, just a sudden transition from deep sleep to complete awareness. His mind was blank for a while, not really thinking, but just staring at the high domed ceiling without wondering where he was or who he was.

Like his waking up, the ignorant bubble popped and he blinked his eyes, then turned his head and sat up. It took him three seconds to see that he was alone, naked and not in Baker Street. He felt exposed, even if he was under a thin blanket that spread across the wide bed. He looked around the room and found it familiar yet very foreign.

He thought back. He remembered his name and he remembered falling, meeting Sherlock, and getting kidnapped—

He jerked in his bed, remembering it was his own in the Blue Palace. John sprang up and lunged for a flying robe and was comforted that his wings were not present on his back. He stopped before a mirror and looked at his shoulder and side.

The scars were still there, tracing where the black poisonous lines had been, but it looked more like a jellyfish sting than a stab and poison wound. He traced his fingers delicately along one of the thicker scars and whistled. He pulled on a robe over his head and felt better with his body covered.

He looked around his room. Wide, tall and it looked like a cathedral. Light filtered in through the thin membrane of the ceiling and lit up the room with a soft glow. The bed was wide with thin blankets and as soft as a cloud, though it wasn't on a frame like the human's were. It just lay on the floor but it was softer than any human material.

He pushed open the doors and hurried along the bright corridor, which was open to the sky. There were open arches as well there for Angels to take off as well without having to take off without a fall or a running start.

The Palace was beautiful. It was built on a stabilized cloud that Angels had firmed with their minds and magic. It was towering, open, painted with mosaics and portraits of the Royal family. He ran lightly down the main corridor to the dining hall and was met with his mother, _Regina Amoris. _

"Merci!" She yelped and ran to him and threw her thin, pale arms around his neck. He blushed and diverted his eyes when she ran to him—ahem, _revealing, _remember—but hugged her back.

"I'm so happy to see you awake!" The Queen said in the Angel language. The words sent a chill down his spine. How long had he been sleeping?

"Mother?" he said, gripping her arms and looking in her beautiful blue eyes. Sharper in color than his, but wide and innocent but experienced with almost two thousand years of memories behind them. "How long have I been sleeping? Mother, please!"

She put her hand on his cheek and said, "Oh, Merci, almost three years. You were so heavily poisoned that it took so long to drain your body of it, but when you had healed you just didn't wake up. We tried everything, but nothing could awaken you."

John knew why. Sherlock hadn't been there to wake him with his touch. "Three years?" He whispered. No, no, no. He knew that was twice as many years as earthen years, so he had been away from Sherlock for almost a year and a half.

He pulled back from her and held his head. He was happy to be back, so happy to see his mother again, he truly was, but he had promised Sherlock he would come back and he intended to see his friend again.

"Merci?" the Queen murmured, coming closer to him again. "What's wrong?"

"I need to go back," he murmured.

"What?"

"I need to go back to Earth," he said, louder and looking at her.

She recoiled in shock and disgust. "You're not well," she said. "You've only just awoken and you're confused—"

"I am not," John said indignantly. "I'm at my most lucid, mother. I promised Sherlock—my friend who kept me alive on Earth—that I would come back after I woke. I will not leave him alone. I refuse. I have to go back. Mother, listen to me! I can come back and forth. I can be an agent, someone who keeps the humans safe as well. Wait, has there been a war?"

The Queen raised her face from her hands, and her eyes were glistening with tears as she answered, "No. We have been communicating for the past three years over negotiations. It's not working out though," she murmured.

John rubbed his face and paced away, then back again. "Mother," he said, "I have to go back. I have to keep the humans safe. There's no one better—I have a life down there! I'm Doctor John Watson and I live with Sherlock Holmes and I help him solve cases! I have friends and enemies and people who know me. I know the humans, I know their habits and I know their governments and the way their minds work. Please, Mother, give me your blessing."

She wiped her eyes and whispered shakily, "You're going to go either way?"

"Yes, mother," he said and took her hands in his. She nearly came undone there but held it in. She replied, "I can't, Merci. I can't. I love you, and I can't let you go down to those beasts with my blessing. I'm sorry. No son of mine, no Prince of the Blue Palace will be willingly down on that land."

John set his jaw and let her hands fall. "Then goodbye, mother. Probably for a long time." He turned without another word and walked to an open arch, summoned his wings and dove off the Palace balcony.

He stretched out his wings with a startling snap and stopped his descent quickly. He glided on a current and then flapped and streamlined his body to make him fly faster. He heard cries of happiness and joy around him, announcing that the Sleeping Prince had awoken. He did not acknowledge these but kept on flying further away.

John now had to face the problem of getting through the Howlers. He flew lower and lower, through the clouds and closer to the Howlers. He pursed his lips as he flew and then smiled, and screamed.

After only a few seconds of his piercing scream did he sense the Howlers disperse, and a column of light was opened to shine down on the Earth. He folded his wings and dove down the light. He kept his limbs tight and wings even closer. He didn't dare even shift a feather as he fell, because if the Howlers touched him he knew he wouldn't be as lucky as before.

John closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, desperately hoping he would clear the Howlers quickly. His entire body was tingling, like he was expecting a violent touch but felt none. Then, he was clear.

He felt the slight change around him. Thicker, warmer air and a less hostile feel around him. He opened his eyes and spread his wings, then hid in a cloud belt as he flew over the ocean. It took him almost four hours of straight flying to reach Great Britain. When he flew over land, he smiled and landed on his old Baker Street flat.

He climbed down the front of the building—it was night, no one saw him—and when he opened the door he was met with the mind of Geoff Lestrade in the upper flat. No Sherlock, but he didn't worry about that right away. He cautiously went up the steps and opened the door.

Lestrade was coming out of the kitchen and dropped the glass in his hand and stared at him. They started at each other for a good minute before Lestrade said, "J-John?"

"Hello, Lestrade," he said.

"Dear God! Is it really you? How are you here? You went missing almost two years ago!"

"Well, I'm obviously not missing any more. Lestrade, where's Sherlock?"

Lestrade stopped his rant at his calm, steady words. John was mentally soothing him, and with his calm words Lestrade came back down to Earth.

"He left," he said.

"Left? Left where?"

"He just…left," Lestrade said unhelpfully. "Two weeks after you went missing. He said he couldn't stand it. He went mad, John. Locked himself in his room and didn't let anyone come in. Then one day I came by and he had packed a bag and said he was leaving. Didn't say where, just around, and that he wouldn't be back for a while. That's it. I haven't heard from him since."

John rubbed his face and sighed. "Thanks, Lestrade. I'll be leaving then—"

"What! No, you have to come to the station—"

"I don't _have_ to do anything, Lestrade," John said severely. "I'm going to get Sherlock." With that, he turned and walked out of the flat, with the Detective Inspector watching after him, openmouthed.

-Fallen Angel-

Sherlock closed his eyes.

He cradled the soft feather to his chest, curling over it almost protectively. The feather was soft, so soft, and smooth and ivory with a tinge of blue. It glided under his fingers like silk and comforted his aching heart.

He felt empty. Alone. Lost. Heartbroken.

Sherlock had often scoffed the people who wailed about their hearts being stolen, broken, hated the people who said it was really a feeling. A heart could not break. It was impossible. But now, as he sat alone on the horrible bed in Switzerland, he felt a dull pain in his chest that had never left since John left. His heart breaking. A feeling of loss, an emptiness and loneliness in his mind, in his bones, and couldn't bother to even stand.

He had been running. Running from what reminded him of happier times. Everything in his flat had reminded him of John, from the tea mugs to his jumpers to his molted feathers stashed under his bed. So he locked himself in his room.

But that hadn't helped. For God's sake, the damned window had reminded him of John. So he decided to leave London. He went abroad, to America and India and back again. But the very sky held the memory of his Angel firm in his mind, and he could never outrun it. He was desperate to find something else to occupy his mind, anything, and eventually settled on destroying Moriarty's empire.

Which was what he was doing for the past six months. Moriarty had left a long chain of command behind, but within six months he had tracked down and killed three operatives. But even though he found a purpose, he couldn't resist the evil temptation of his past.

Within five weeks of losing John, and in the back streets of an American town, he injected a lethal dose of cocaine into his arm. He woke up, two days later, where he had fallen.

And as he looked into a mirror in Switzerland, he saw a gaunt, haunted skeletal face staring back at him. The ebony curls limp and dirty, the cheekbones drawn and casting high shadows in his jaw. Eyes sunken deep within his skull, staring with a pained and haunted look. His limbs were gangly, pale, and puncture marked hundreds of times, and his bones stuck out at every point on his pathetic body. Every rib was visible, hips sharp and jagged, bones in his arms and legs visible and barely and muscle left over the thin bones.

Now he sat on the bed and holding the only thing he had let himself bring of John, contemplating on how to kill himself. He couldn't take this pain anymore, the fracture in his heart, or the skeleton that stared out at him from any reflective surface.

Sherlock held the feather in one hand and a fatal dose of cocaine and heroin in the other. He stuck the needle in his arm without a second thought, a whispered apology to his Angel on his cracked lips, let the feather drop and he keeled over onto the dirty bed.

-Fallen Angel-

A dark figure entered a deathly quiet room, the only light the moonlight filtering in through closed blinds, and glided on silent feet to the single bed. The figure reached out, still silent, so very silent, and rubbed two fingertips across a pale cheek that lay on a filthy pillow.

The figure reached another hand out and cupped the face that lay too silently on that bed, held it soft between their warm hands, and tilted the unmoving head towards him. Lines of moonlight fell across the face and added another set of shadows to the sunken features.

With the thumbs stroking across the sharp cheekbones, the figure leaned down and gently captured the cracked lips of the unmoving man and held him like that for some time. The figure pulled back and pressed a hand to the chest, over the still heart, and willed it to start again.

The figure had not been gone long. Not even ten minutes. But long enough, the figure thought, and pressed his hand harder down and shot a sharp jolt into the man's heart. He kissed those lips again, willing his own life force to restart that brilliant brain again.

The heart started with a viscous pound, and the brain sparked to life again. The figure did not pull his head back as he stabilized the very awake and very aware man beneath him. When he did, the man once dead opened his eyes and saw the face of an Angel above him, the taste of Angel on his lips, and the magic of that Angel in his once broken heart, mending the crack there.

John Watson carefully climbed onto Sherlock's bed and straddled those jagged hips, his cape of ivory covering both men, Angel and Man, both of them letting loose who they really were, and who they really wanted.

Sherlock Holmes was never happier and terrified in his entire life. And he would never have it any other way.

-Fallen Angel-

Sherlock was awake when John opened his eyes. There were trickles of light falling into their room, on the bed, and when John turned his head to look at Sherlock he saw his quicksilver eyes already looking at him.

His arm was protectively around the human's bare shoulders, and said human was curled against him with his head and mop of curls resting on his healed shoulder. The bony fingers were absently tracing the scars lacing his body and the quicksilver were following the diluted blue.

"Are you here?" Sherlock murmured, diverting his eyes and focusing on the spidery scars.

"Yes," John answered, not for the first time.

"For good? You're not just a hallucination?"

"No, I'm really here," John murmured, burying his nose softly in the obsidian curls.

"Will you stay?"

"Forever." John paused, and ghosted his lips against the human's ear as he whispered, "_S__emper per omnia sǽcul__a."_

Sherlock's spine stiffened in pleasure at the binding promise and he let out a soft, pent up sigh. He closed his eyes and smiled.

Here is where I draw the conclusion of this fancy little tale. I do hope you have enjoyed this story. But there is one thing I seemed to not have covered. And that is the identity of me, your delightful little narrator.

Well, dear readers, that's for you to decide.

**Done! Fin! **

**That's the end of My Fallen Angel. I'm a little sad to see it go, but I have in mind of a sequel that would depict the adventures afterwards.**

**But think about this: If Sherlock was dead, and John revived him literally from death, what does that make Sherlock? If he literally has John's magic in his veins and in his heart keeping him alive, does that make him an Angel? Or a half breed? He's certainly not just a human anymore.**

**Excuse any mistakes, and I don't own Sherlock.**

**Do tell me how I did. The magic number hasn't been reached yet! **

**Stay Happy,**

**Spirit**


	15. Bonus Poem

_My angel of a certain kind,_

_A hesitant but destined find,_

_Who fell from where he's known_

_To see all that could be shown._

_He set my heart in a fiery burn,_

_Something I thought was to be earned._

_I never knew love of such passion,_

_But he showed me the arms of compassion._

_I know my fallen angel is mine to keep,_

_Both in this world and when we're asleep._


End file.
